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lumosflairr · 8 days ago

Note

Hey (first of all, I just want to say I love your writing) I’d love to request a Fred Weasley fic inspired by To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, like the reader’s letters getting out and Fred being kind of like Peter Kavinsky. Sorry for any mistakes, English isn’t my first language. I love your writing, take care!

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 - 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲

summary: When a stack of private love letters accidentally gets out, you and Fred Weasley agree to fake-date to save face—and maybe make someone jealous. But between forehead kisses, stolen jumpers, and a Quidditch pitch kiss that feels way too real, pretending starts to feel a lot like falling… for real.

warnings: suggestive joke, once.

word count: 10.2k

taglist: @aouoo @plumbum4 @D3ad-Daisyz @moramaybe @iluvhrj @losers-want-to-win @billieeilishkisser @divineani @lilians17

You always knew it was a dangerous game — bottling your feelings into ink and parchment. But it had always been safer that way. No heartbreak, no awkward stammering, no regret. Just you, your thoughts, and your stack of love letters tucked in a charm-locked, enchanted tea tin hidden behind your Charms textbooks.

There were five letters.

Each one carefully written under candlelight, sealed with a wax stamp you made from the base of your wand and a spell you found in Magical Sentiments: The Private Art of Wizarding Love Letters. You never intended for anyone to read them. That was the point. You wrote them to let go — to spill your heart in a place where no one could see the mess.

They were to:

1. Cedric Diggory – The golden boy of Hufflepuff. You admired him from afar during your second year when he picked up your books after Peeves knocked them over and smiled like he had all the time in the world. That smile lived in your memory longer than it should have.

2. Roger Davies – Brief, intense, and fizzled out like a dropped wand spark. You sat next to him in Ancient Runes for one term and swore he smelled like fresh parchment and mint. He never knew your name.

3. Oliver Wood – Oh, that was a phase. An intense, Quidditch-fueled phase where you convinced yourself you were in love with his drive, his voice during practice, and the way he said “bloody hell” under his breath every time someone dropped the Quaffle.

4. Fred Weasley – The most dangerous letter of them all. Not because it was the most passionate, or the most embarrassing, but because it was the most real. It was scribbled when you were fourteen and hopelessly stuck in a limbo between friendship and something that never quite happened. Fred, who once snuck you chocolate frogs after a bad exam. Fred, who danced with you once during a Gryffindor party when no one else asked. Fred, who made your heart feel like a fizzing whizzbee and never once noticed.

5. Michael Corner – A brief crush that died the moment he started dating Ginny Weasley. You wrote his letter half-heartedly, just to get it out of your system. It worked.

Five letters. Five pieces of your heart, written with no intention of ever being sent.

And yet, somehow, they were gone.

It happened on a Monday. A normal, average, nothing-out-of-the-ordinary Monday. Until it wasn’t.

You returned from breakfast to your dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, ready to grab your bag and rush off to Charms. But when you went to pull the tin from behind your books — a spot no one ever looked — it was gone.

You stared at the empty space, blinking. Maybe you moved it? Maybe you took it out and forgot? You pulled books down, tossed aside your spare quills and loose parchment, even looked under your bed.

Nothing.

Panic crawled up your throat.

“Winnie?” you called to your roommate, who was brushing her hair in the mirror, “Did you move anything from my shelf?”

She glanced back, half-paying attention. “No, why?”

You swallowed. “The tin I kept behind my books. It’s missing.”

Winnie shrugged. “Isn’t that the ugly one with the pink lid? Thought it looked like something from Honeydukes. I saw George Weasley messing with something pink yesterday. Near your side of the dorm. I assumed it was one of his prank sweets.”

Your heart stopped.

George. Bloody. Weasley.

You didn’t even wait to process. You stormed down the spiral stairs of the girls’ dormitory, sprinted past confused first-years, and nearly tripped over a couch cushion as you beelined toward the only people on Earth who could take a harmless enchanted box and turn it into your personal social doom.

Fred and George Weasley.

When you got to the common room, Fred was leaning back in one of the armchairs, boots kicked up on the table, an open bag of Every Flavour Beans resting on his lap. George was beside him, half-laughing, holding what looked suspiciously like—

No.

No, no, no.

A letter. Your letter.

The wax seal had been cracked.

Fred was holding another one. He turned it over in his hands with curiosity and a smirk, reading the front quietly to himself before glancing up at you. “To… Fred Gideon Weasley,” he read aloud dramatically, eyes twinkling. “Well, well. I don’t recall ever getting love letters before breakfast.”

You froze mid-step. “Fred—”

George grinned like the devil himself. “So, these are yours, huh? They just showed up in our dorm this morning. No note, no explanation. Bit mysterious. Naturally, we opened one.”

“I didn’t open any!” George said quickly. “That was him.” He pointed a smug finger at his twin.

You took a breath, heart racing. “Give. Them. Back.”

But Fred was already standing, holding your letter to him just out of reach. “Hang on, love. You wrote this?” His voice wasn’t teasing. Not yet. “You liked me?”

Past tense. You clung to it like a lifeline. “It was years ago.”

Fred’s brow lifted. “Says here I made you laugh during Potions and that you thought I had nice hands.”

Your entire face went hot. “Fred—”

“I do have nice hands, though,” he said thoughtfully, examining them. “Long fingers. Very useful for pranks and snatching love letters out of the air, apparently.”

You made a desperate grab for it, but he pulled it away with ease. “This is serious! These weren’t meant to be read!”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have written them,” George said brightly, though he handed back the other letters with a sheepish shrug. “Sorry, we thought it was a prank box. You know, one of those joke confession things.”

Fred’s gaze hadn’t left the letter. He tapped it against his palm, quiet now.

You glared at both of them. “If you tell anyone—”

Fred cut you off, voice calmer. “I won’t.”

You looked up, surprised.

He tucked the letter into his coat pocket like it belonged there. “But you and I,” he added with a grin slowly spreading across his face, “should talk.”

Your stomach flipped.

He looked intrigued.

And that was much, much more dangerous.

Maybe he’d make a joke of it. Maybe he’d bring it up at dinner, toast to his “secret admirer” in front of the whole Gryffindor table and watch you go crimson. Or maybe, worst of all, he’d just forget it happened. Toss the letter in the bin, let it fade like every other school crush in history.

But Fred Weasley didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he kept the letter. And the next day, he cornered you after Transfiguration with that same maddening glint in his eye — equal parts amusement and curiosity, like he was halfway between setting off a prank and solving a puzzle.

You barely had time to open your mouth before he grabbed your arm and steered you into an empty corridor.

“Let me guess,” you said flatly, yanking your arm free. “You want to frame it? Hang it over your bed so you can admire yourself more efficiently?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “It’s very flattering, by the way. All the stuff about my eyes and laugh and — what was it? — the way I said ‘bugger’ like it was a love language?”

You groaned. “Fred—”

“I’m kidding,” he said quickly, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Sort of. But I’m not here to take the mickey out of you, alright?”

You eyed him suspiciously.

“I’m actually here to make you a deal.”

That got your attention. “A deal?”

He looked around dramatically, then leaned in like he was about to reveal the location of a secret passageway Filch didn’t even know about. “We fake-date.”

You stared. “We what?”

“You and me,” he said, pointing between the two of you. “Public hand-holding, flirty looks across the Great Hall, sitting next to each other at meals, all that. We give people something to talk about.”

“Why?” you asked, blinking. “So you can mess with me more efficiently?”

“Because,” he said, voice lowering slightly, “Angelina’s seeing someone.”

You tilted your head. “Angelina Johnson?”

He nodded. “Started hanging around some Ravenclaw bloke last week. Tall. Prefect badge. A personality made of stale toast.”

You blinked. “Wait, you like Angelina?”

He made a face. “Not like-like. Just… we’ve been mates for years. We’ve snogged a few times after Quidditch wins. I thought maybe there was a thing there.”

“Ouch.”

He sighed. “Tell me about it.”

You crossed your arms, frowning. “So let me get this straight: You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend to make her jealous?”

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds a bit manipulative—”

“It is manipulative.”

He held up a finger. “It’s also mutually beneficial.”

You raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How?”

He grinned. “Because everyone’s talking about those letters now. I overheard two Hufflepuffs debating whether you wrote one to Snape.”

You winced. “Merlin.”

“And if we pretend to date,” he continued, “it gives you a way to spin it. You’ll look confident. Mysterious. Like you had options and you chose me.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like it benefits you a lot more than me.”

He shrugged. “You get plausible deniability. And the satisfaction of making me act like a charming, devoted boyfriend for a few weeks.”

You studied him. “Why not ask Alicia? Or Katie?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because they’d see right through me. And they’d laugh.”

You tilted your head. “And I won’t?”

“I mean,” he said, flashing that signature smirk, “you already had a crush on me. So technically you’re more invested.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was fourteen, Fred. That crush died years ago.”

He leaned in slightly. “Shame.”

The air shifted just slightly between you.

You cleared your throat. “So what exactly would this… fake thing entail?”

Fred shrugged. “We do the basics. Walk together between classes. Sit a bit too close in the common room. Maybe a stolen kiss in the corridor to really sell it.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’d… want to kiss me?”

His expression softened just a little. “Only if you’re alright with it. It’s just for the act.”

You didn’t answer right away. You looked down at the floor, then back up at him. Fred Weasley, asking you to play pretend. To act like everything you’d dreamed about years ago was real — only for someone else’s attention.

It was insane.

It was stupid.

It was tempting.

“How long?” you asked quietly.

Fred tilted his head. “A few weeks. Just until Angelina realizes she let something brilliant slip away.”

“And then what?” you asked. “We just break up publicly? Fight in the middle of the Great Hall for added drama?”

“I was thinking something more tasteful,” he said, grinning. “A mutual parting. We stay friends. Maybe you slap me for cheating. Up to you, really.”

You shook your head slowly. “This is ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

You paused. “If anyone finds out—”

“No one will,” he promised. “We’re professionals. Well, I am. You’ll catch on.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then finally sighed. “Fine.”

Fred’s grin exploded across his face. “Brilliant!”

“But if you so much as hint at anything in that letter—”

“I swear on my broomstick,” he said solemnly.

You hesitated, then added, “And don’t think I’m swooning over you just because I once said you had nice hands.”

He held them up again, wiggling his fingers. “They are nice, though.”

You turned to walk away, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks.

Behind you, Fred called, “So does this mean I can call you darling in public now?”

“Try it,” you called back, “and I’ll hex your eyebrows off.”

By dinner that night, you had almost convinced yourself he’d forgotten the whole thing. Fred wasn’t exactly known for his attention span, and George had already started an indoor Dungbomb relay in the common room, which should’ve occupied his entire brain.

But when you entered the Great Hall, you spotted him instantly — already sitting at the Gryffindor table with his arm stretched along the bench, eyes scanning the entrance like he was waiting for you.

You paused in the doorway. He caught your eye, and without missing a beat, he patted the space beside him. You took a deep breath and walked toward him, ignoring the way your heart was starting to pound again. He looked unreasonably smug as you slid onto the bench.

“Evening, sweetheart,” he said with a wink.

You nearly choked. “You promised.”

“No eyebrow hexes yet,” he said, reaching for a roll. “I’m just playing my part.”

You glanced across the table — and sure enough, a few students were already whispering. Even Angelina, who sat three spots down, looked over at you both curiously.

Fred leaned closer. “Smile. You’re in love with me, remember?”

You resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

Instead, you plastered on what you hoped was a convincingly lovesick smile and leaned just a little into his shoulder. Fred tilted his head toward yours, his voice low.

“Convincing,” he murmured. “Maybe too convincing.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered.

“I’m not. That was a genuine compliment.” He reached forward and served you mashed potatoes — unprompted. “You’re glowing, darling.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If you say that word again, I will make it so you can’t say any word again.”

Fred only grinned, utterly unfazed. “You’re very violent for someone in love.”

You risked another glance at Angelina. She was laughing at something her friend said, but she glanced over again, just for a second. Her eyes dropped to where Fred’s arm was still resting behind you on the bench.

Fred noticed, too.

He shifted subtly, letting his fingers brush against the back of your shoulder. You stiffened. He leaned in like he was about to whisper something sweet — but instead, he whispered, “She’s looking.”

“Then stop acting like you’re narrating a spy mission.”

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to miss the moment my fake girlfriend has a public meltdown.”

“I’m this close, Weasley.”

“Good,” he said brightly. “Keep that fiery passion. It makes the whole performance feel more alive.”

You stabbed your fork into a piece of roasted carrot.

Then — to your surprise — he softened.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Fred said, quieter now. “I’m not doing this to mess with you. And I’m not going to make fun of the letter. I swear.”

You glanced at him.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think you could pull it off,” he added. “You’re brilliant. Everyone’s going to believe it.”

That… shut you up.

You looked back down at your plate, cheeks warming again — and not from embarrassment this time.

Before you could form a response, Fred turned his head slightly and spoke again, louder this time. “We should head to the library after this, yeah? I want to spend some time with you before practice.”

You blinked. “You hate the library.”

“It’s romantic now,” he said, standing and offering his hand like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Come on, darling.”

You hesitated — then placed your hand in his.

Fred laced your fingers together, and just like that, every whisper in the Great Hall tripled. Angelina looked up. Fred didn’t acknowledge her. He was too busy smirking at you as he pulled you gently toward the doors, swinging your joined hands between you like it was all real.

And maybe, for a single second, it almost felt like it was.

As the week progressed, Fred didn’t drop the act — if anything, he doubled down.

He started walking you to class like it was routine. At meals, his thigh always pressed just slightly against yours under the table. During breaks between lessons, he’d appear out of nowhere to drape his arm over your shoulder and press a casual, too-natural kiss to your temple. Always in sight of someone.

At first, it caught you off guard — the way he played the part so easily, so convincingly. He’d slip his fingers into yours in the middle of the corridor, flash a grin at anyone who looked confused, and say things like “She’s mine, sorry lads” without missing a beat.

He called you darling, angel, sweetheart, and once — just to see you nearly combust — love of my life.

It was maddening. And unfairly effective.

The strangest part was how quickly everyone else started believing it.

By Friday, your friends had fully accepted the performance as truth. You’d walked into the Gryffindor common room late one evening to find Katie, Alicia, and Winnie sprawled on the couch, quizzing each other on Astronomy charts. They all looked up at once when you entered — and Katie practically launched forward.

“Oh my Godric’s beard,” she gasped. “You and Fred?”

You blinked, heart skipping. “What?”

Alicia grinned. “Don’t play dumb. He walked you to class again today. And you let him hold your hand the entire way down the corridor like it was nothing.”

“Also,” Katie added, narrowing her eyes, “he kissed your forehead right in front of Slughorn’s office. That’s practically domestic.”

You sat down slowly, trying not to panic. “Okay, yes — but—”

“But?” Winnie cut in, smirking. “Since when has this been a thing?”

You shrugged, forcing a casual smile. “It’s… new. Kind of a secret thing.”

Katie raised an eyebrow. “Secret?”

“I didn’t want to say anything unless I knew it was mutual,” you said, and technically, it wasn’t a lie. “Didn’t want to jinx it.”

Alicia clutched her chest. “That’s adorable.”

You gave a helpless laugh. “It’s not— I mean— we’re not—”

“You’re definitely something,” Katie cut in with a wicked glint in her eyes. “And if he’s not sneaking off to see you later tonight, I’ll eat Peeves’ socks.”

You froze. “W-what?”

Her grin widened. “Oh please, we’ve all seen the way he looks at you. I wouldn’t be shocked if you wandered off to his dorm sometime around midnight.”

Your face went pink so fast, it was like a charm had hit you.

They howled.

Even Winnie, usually the most composed of them all, was laughing into a pillow. Alicia threw an arm around your shoulder.

“You’re blushing,” she teased.

“Am not,” you lied.

Katie leaned forward, practically vibrating with delight. “Just promise you’ll tell us everything if something happens, yeah?”

You covered your face with both hands. “Nothing is happening.”

They all giggled again, delighted, and settled back into their conversation like they hadn’t just shattered your composure.

But as the fire crackled and the room softened into late-night warmth, you caught yourself smiling behind your hands — because somewhere between the teasing and the pretending, Fred Weasley had started to feel dangerously real.

And maybe that was the scariest part of all.

Because somewhere between the forehead kisses and the hand-holding, somewhere between his arm draped lazily around your shoulders and the quiet, stolen looks he gave you when he thought no one else was watching — you started to wonder if you were slipping.

Not just pretending.

Not just playing along.

But feeling again.

It was terrifying. Because you remembered how it felt the first time — years ago, when your heart was younger and your crush on Fred was sweet and harmless. Back then, liking him had been simple. It had lived in glances and giggles, in letters you never intended to send.

But now?

Now it felt different. Sharper. Deeper. Like something had cracked open and let all that buried affection bleed out again, stronger than before — fed by every smile he threw your way, every quiet moment he leaned in close enough to make your breath catch.

You weren’t supposed to feel this way.

This was fake.

You knew it.

And yet your heart fluttered every single time he touched you. Every time he called you darling in that lazy, affectionate voice like he’d been doing it for years. Every time he tugged you toward him just a little too gently. Every time he rested his chin on your shoulder in the common room and sighed like being next to you was exactly where he wanted to be.

The worst part was… he made it look so easy. Like all this affection — all this closeness — meant nothing to him. Like it was just a performance, no more meaningful than pulling off a prank or slipping a Dungbomb into someone’s bag.

For you, every second of it was a storm. And for him, it was just weather.

It made your stomach ache, the way he could be so casual about it — laughing, teasing, touching you like it was nothing. Like he didn’t see the way you froze every time his fingers brushed your cheek. Like he didn’t notice the way your eyes lingered on his lips when he got too close.

Like he didn’t feel it too.

You kept telling yourself it would end. That it had to end. That Fred would get what he wanted — Angelina’s attention, her jealousy, her interest again — and the charade would fade. You’d go back to being just friends. Or classmates. Or nothing at all.

But until then, you were caught in this in-between. This sweet, aching lie you both agreed to live in — one where he looked at you like you were his and smiled like he meant it.

And no matter how hard you tried to protect yourself, your heart was slipping.

Falling again.

Maybe it had never really stopped.

And Merlin help you, but a part of you was starting to wish that Fred Weasley wasn’t acting at all.

So you told yourself to keep your heart guarded.

To stop overanalyzing every smile, every look, every gentle touch. To remember that Fred Weasley was just playing a role — and you were the one who signed up for it.

But then he said something like, “Girlfriends should hang out with their boyfriend’s mates at least once in a while,” and next thing you knew, you were sitting in the courtyard on a lazy Saturday afternoon with Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, sunlight pooling over the stone benches as laughter bounced around you.

It was… easy. Too easy.

The four of you were tucked beneath one of the arched colonnades, eating from a shared bag of Honeydukes sweets and trading stories about Filch, Quidditch, and the time George accidentally blew up the third-year cauldron closet.

Fred sat beside you, thigh pressed to yours, occasionally stealing your chocolate frogs and tossing every third one into Lee’s open palm like they’d made some silent agreement. You kept telling yourself to relax, to enjoy the sunshine and the way Fred laughed with his whole body and nudged your knee whenever you looked too serious.

You didn’t even realize you were smiling so much — until George teased, “You’re awfully quiet, lovebird. Cat got your tongue or are you just busy memorizing Freddie’s jawline again?”

You rolled your eyes and opened your mouth to argue — but before you could respond, Fred shifted closer and said smoothly, “Let her admire me. It’s character development.”

Lee snorted. “More like a tragic case of brain rot.”

“Oh, shut it,” Fred said, smirking. “She’s got excellent taste.”

You turned your head, ready to fire back something smart — when you saw Angelina.

She was walking across the grass just a few meters away, hand-in-hand with a tall Ravenclaw boy whose name you didn’t know. Her laugh was soft, the kind she reserved for people who got past her walls, and her head tilted affectionately toward the boy beside her as they strolled by like they hadn’t a care in the world.

Fred saw her, too.

His jaw shifted. Just slightly. Almost imperceptibly.

And then — without warning — he turned to you and murmured under his breath, voice low and casual, but firm:

“Don’t be alarmed by what I’m about to do, love.”

Before you could ask what he meant, his arm slid around your waist and pulled you clean off the bench — right into his lap.

You landed with a surprised “oof,” half-sprawled across him, your hands catching instinctively on his chest. Your entire face turned pink.

George choked on his sweet. Lee let out a sharp whistle.

“Merlin’s bloody beard, Fred!” George laughed. “Warn a bloke before you get all handsy!”

“She’s fine,” Fred said easily, arms loosely wrapped around your waist now like you belonged there. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You blinked up at him, heart pounding. His face was so close now. Playfully smug, lips curved, eyes warm and a little too focused on yours.

He was acting.

You knew that.

And yet… you didn’t move.

“Dizzy,” you said flatly, “from the whiplash.”

Fred grinned. “That’s my girl.”

George and Lee were already cackling.

Lee pointed. “Can’t lie, that was smooth. The kind of move that makes seventh-year girls write poetry about you.”

Fred beamed. “I do inspire great art.”

“And tragic regret,” you muttered.

Fred’s gaze dipped down to your lips for half a second — just enough to make your stomach do a weird little flip — then back up to your eyes. “Regret? Is that what you’re calling this?”

“I’m calling it reckless.”

“You wound me.”

You tilted your head. “Not yet, but I’m considering it.”

His grin widened. “Keep talking like that, love, and people might start thinking you enjoy this.”

You didn’t answer.

Because, maybe — just maybe — you did.

And it scared you how easy it was to flirt back. How natural it felt to have his hands on your waist, his voice low in your ear, his breath close enough to warm your cheek.

You didn’t miss the way Angelina glanced back once, eyebrows raised slightly — and how Fred’s hold on you tightened, just a little.

But you didn’t say anything.

Because as fake as this all was supposed to be, part of you was starting to forget where the act ended and your heart began.

Fred’s arms remained draped around your waist long after George and Lee had stopped laughing.

He was still smirking, still playing the part — but there was something softer in the way he held you. Like he wasn’t just showing off anymore. Like maybe, just maybe, he liked having you close.

And you hated how much you liked it, too.

The four of you stayed there in the courtyard, the golden afternoon light warming the stone beneath your feet as the conversation shifted. It wasn’t long before talk turned to Quidditch — as it always did when Fred and George were around.

“We’ll absolutely demolish them,” George said, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Slytherin doesn’t stand a chance. Their Beaters couldn’t hit a Bludger if it was floating still.”

“They’re too busy adjusting their hair in the reflection of their brooms,” Fred added. “Though I’ll admit, Malfoy’s perfected that windblown pout.”

Lee snorted. “You better back that talk up on the pitch, mate.”

“Oh, we will,” Fred said, grinning like the arrogant show-off he absolutely was on game days. “I’ve got a whole new move planned. Haven’t even shown George yet.”

“You mean the one where you do a backflip and nearly break your spine?” George muttered. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather not be scraping your body off the turf.”

Fred scoffed. “Dramatic.”

“Suicidal.”

You couldn’t help but smile at them — all of them, really. There was something contagious about their energy. It made you feel like you belonged there, tucked between laughter and bickering and banter like you’d always been part of it.

Fred’s hand moved absentmindedly along your hip, his fingers curling through the belt loop of your jeans like he didn’t even notice he was doing it.

He looked down at you suddenly, his voice low enough that only you heard it.

“Come up to my dorm later tonight.”

You blinked.

He grinned.

“I’ve got a gift for you.”

George, who was very much not far enough away to miss that, let out a groan. “Merlin’s sake, Fred. In front of my butterbeer?”

Lee laughed. “Bit early in the relationship for that kind of gift, isn’t it?”

Fred didn’t miss a beat. “Who says it’s that kind of gift? Maybe I’m just a thoughtful boyfriend.”

“Ha!” George snorted. “Now that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved at Fred’s shoulder. “You’re all so bloody annoying.”

Fred just winked. “But charming, yeah?”

“Not even slightly.”

But he was grinning at you like he knew you didn’t mean it.

And unfortunately, he was right.

Fred’s arms remained draped around your waist long after George and Lee had stopped laughing.

He was still smirking, still playing the part — but there was something softer in the way he held you. Like he wasn’t just showing off anymore. Like maybe, just maybe, he liked having you close.

And you hated how much you liked it, too.

“They’re too busy adjusting their hair in the reflection of their brooms,” Fred added. “Though I’ll admit, Malfoy’s perfected that windblown pout.”

Lee snorted. “You better back that talk up on the pitch, mate.”

“Oh, we will,” Fred said, grinning like the arrogant show-off he absolutely was on game days. “I’ve got a whole new move planned. Haven’t even shown George yet.”

“You mean the one where you do a backflip and nearly break your spine?” George muttered. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather not be scraping your body off the turf.”

Fred scoffed. “Dramatic.”

“Suicidal.”

Fred’s hand moved absentmindedly along your hip, his fingers curling through the belt loop of your jeans like he didn’t even notice he was doing it.

He looked down at you suddenly, his voice low enough that only you heard it.

“Come up to my dorm later tonight.”

You blinked.

He grinned.

“I’ve got a gift for you.”

George, who was very much not far enough away to miss that, let out a groan. “Merlin’s sake, Fred. In front of my butterbeer?”

Lee laughed. “Bit early in the fake relationship for that kind of gift, isn’t it?”

Fred didn’t miss a beat. “Who says it’s that kind of gift? Maybe I’m just a thoughtful boyfriend.”

“Ha!” George snorted. “Now that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved at Fred’s shoulder. “You’re all so bloody annoying.”

Fred just winked. “But charming, yeah?”

“Not even slightly.”

But he was grinning at you like he knew you didn’t mean it.

And unfortunately, he was right.

Later that night, you found yourself standing just inside Fred Weasley’s dorm room.

The space was cluttered, loud in the way boys’ rooms always were — half-empty boxes of sweets, a tangle of worn Quidditch gloves and broomstick wax, and a few fading posters plastered across the walls. His bed was unmade (shocking) and smelled faintly of mint and broom polish.

Fred was rifling through one of his drawers while you sat gingerly on the edge of his bed, trying not to overthink literally everything.

“Close your eyes,” he said over his shoulder.

“I’m not five.”

“Do it anyway.”

You huffed dramatically but obliged.

Something soft landed in your lap.

“Okay, open.”

You blinked — and stared.

It was a thick maroon Quidditch sweater. Slightly oversized, clearly worn, and unmistakably his. The back had his last name “WEASLEY” stitched in bold letters with the number “3” beneath it.

You looked up, startled. “Is this… your jersey?”

Fred leaned back against the bedpost and crossed his arms, a pleased smirk tugging at his lips.

“Very good deduction, darling.”

You blinked again. “Why are you giving this to me?”

He raised a brow. “Because it’s what girlfriends do. Wear their boyfriend’s number. Show their undying devotion. Obsessively cheer them on from the stands.”

“I do not obsessively cheer.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I clapped once.”

“It was passionate.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re serious? You want me to wear this at the match?”

Fred pushed off the wall and strolled over, leaning down slightly until your knees bumped. He plucked the sweater from your lap and held it up with both hands, sizing it against your frame. His voice dropped low — teasing, warm.

“Picture it: You, in the crowd. This on you. My name on your back, yeah? Everyone sees it. Angelina sees it. You’re mine.”

You rolled your eyes, but heat crept up your neck anyway.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“No, I’m—”

He gently tugged the sweater over your head before you could stop him. You yelped as the thick fabric slipped down your arms and past your waist, swallowing you entirely. It smelled like him — cinnamon and wind and something warm you couldn’t name.

Fred stepped back and nodded appreciatively.

“See? Perfect.”

You stared down at yourself. The sweater reached your thighs.

“This is practically a dress.”

Fred’s grin deepened. “Wouldn’t mind seeing that either.”

“Fred.”

“What? Just making observations.”

You tried not to smile — and failed miserably. He flopped onto the bed beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. “It suits you. Just saying.”

You glanced at him, heart thudding uncomfortably loud in your chest.

“Why does this feel… weirdly real?”

Fred’s expression faltered — just for a second — before the smirk returned.

“Because I’m very convincing,” he said, softer now. “Dangerously so.”

You laughed under your breath. “Yeah. You really are.”

You didn’t take the sweater off that night.

Not even when you got back to your dorm and had to answer your roommates’ endless questions. Not even when you crawled into bed, Fred’s name still stitched across your back, warmth lingering like a phantom where his fingers had brushed your waist.

And certainly not the next morning, when you tugged it back on and headed down to the Quidditch pitch — pretending like this was all normal, like you hadn’t been lying awake half the night replaying everything in your head.

The stands were alive with energy, the Gryffindor section decked in red and gold. Banners rippled through the wind, students painted their faces, and someone had even charmed tiny lions to roar out house chants every few minutes.

You sat wedged between Hermione and Alicia Spinnet, your knees bouncing with nerves — although, if you were being honest, you weren’t nervous for the match.

You were nervous about him.

“Look at you,” Hermione said with a knowing smile, nudging your side. “In your boyfriend’s Quidditch sweater. How adorably cliché.”

You groaned, pulling at the too-long sleeves. “It’s not—he just gave it to me. For the match.”

“Right,” Alicia teased from your other side. “Totally not because he wanted everyone to see you wearing his name. Very casual.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks heating. “You’re both insufferable.”

“Oh, we know,” Hermione said sweetly, then pointed toward the sky. “Look — they’re out!”

The players zoomed into view, a blur of scarlet robes and glinting broomsticks. The roar from the stands swelled. You leaned forward on instinct, your eyes scanning the team until you spotted him.

Fred.

Hair windswept, bat clutched in one hand, flying in perfect tandem with George. His eyes were sharp, focused — until they weren’t. Until they flicked up toward the crowd.

He found you instantly.

Your breath caught.

Fred grinned.

And then — right there in the middle of the match, without a care in the world — he blew you a kiss.

You blinked, stunned, and then laughed — warm and giddy — as you blew one right back.

Hermione let out a mock gasp. “Scandalous.”

Alicia giggled. “You two are actually sickening.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, still smiling like an idiot.

Down on the pitch, Fred twisted midair just in time to whack a Bludger clean across the field, sending it spiraling past the Slytherin Chaser with barely an inch to spare. He high-fived George mid-flight, who whooped in celebration.

The match was fast-paced and aggressive, with both teams locked in a tug-of-war for control. Fred played like he had fire in his veins — sharp turns, daring dives, calculated hits that had the crowd shrieking. Every time a Slytherin tried to close in on a Gryffindor Chaser, Fred or George was already there, knocking Bludgers like guided missiles.

And then — twenty minutes in, Lee Jordan’s voice blared through the stadium, frantic and excited:

“Potter’s seen the Snitch—he’s diving—COME ON, HARRY—YES—HE’S GOT IT!”

The stands exploded.

Red and gold erupted into the air. Flags waved wildly. People screamed, threw their arms around each other, stomped the bleachers until the whole structure trembled.

You were already on your feet, heart racing with joy. Gryffindor had won.

You clambered down the stands with the rest of the crowd, your sweater bouncing against your thighs as you pushed through the sea of students pouring onto the pitch.

The team was already on the ground, dismounting and hugging and yelling over the chaos. You caught Fred’s eyes the moment your feet hit the grass.

He was grinning so wide it looked like his face might split.

“Fred!” you called, weaving toward him.

He didn’t say a word. Just strode forward, scooped you up, and spun you in a full circle, his arms locked around your waist, his laughter rumbling against your ear.

“You were brilliant,” you managed, breathless and flushed.

“And you look bloody adorable in my sweater,” he said with a grin. “Reckon it brought me luck.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he was already gazing at you — eyes roving over your face like you were something rare. Like he didn’t want to miss a single detail.

His hands tightened ever so slightly at your waist.

And then — just like that — he kissed you.

Right there on the Quidditch pitch, surrounded by noise and celebration and way too many witnesses, Fred Weasley kissed you.

It was soft at first — gentle, like he was testing the waters. But the moment you didn’t pull away, his hands slid up your back, and the kiss deepened.

Your fingers curled into his jersey. The crowd melted around you.

Someone whistled loudly.

“THAT’S MY BROTHER!” George yelled obnoxiously. “GET IT, FREDDIE!”

The crowd erupted into cheers, whistles, and catcalls, but neither of you moved.

When Fred finally pulled back, he was slightly out of breath, his grin wide and lopsided.

“Hi,” he said simply, voice lower than usual.

“Hi,” you whispered back, dazed.

Your cheeks were flaming. You couldn’t stop smiling.

Fred’s fingers brushed your cheek, lingering there for a beat too long. You were still close enough to feel the afterglow of his kiss, to see the glint in his eyes that looked way too real.

And then George jogged over, throwing an arm around his twin with a proud grin.

“That was bloody brilliant,” he said to Fred, before turning to you with a wink.

Fred opened his mouth to respond — but you weren’t even listening anymore.

Because over George’s shoulder, your eyes caught on Angelina, who stood off to the side near the goalpost, still talking to her boyfriend. Laughing at something he said. Unbothered. Unaware.

She hadn’t even looked.

She hadn’t seen the kiss. Hadn’t reacted. Hadn’t flinched.

Which meant…

Fred hadn’t kissed you to make her jealous.

He had just… kissed you.

Your heart pounded.

You looked up at Fred — and he was already looking at you.

The smirk was back, but his eyes told a different story.

And suddenly, the lines between fake and real had never felt blurrier.

The common room was buzzing.

Someone had charmed the wireless to blast The Weird Sisters. Butterbeer bottles clinked together in cheers. Laughter rang from every corner, people draped in Gryffindor scarves still riding the high from the win.

You were curled into the corner of the red velvet couch, tucked beneath Fred’s arm, your legs stretched across his lap. His fingertips absentmindedly traced patterns along the sleeve of your jumper — his jumper — and every time his knuckle brushed your wrist, your heart skipped a beat.

He smelled like grass and soap and wind. You’d spent the better half of the match yelling yourself hoarse, and the other half trying not to think about the way his lips had felt against yours.

But you were failing miserably at that second part.

Because the truth was, you’d thought about that kiss a lot.

Over and over, like some dumb record stuck on repeat.

And the worst part?

You couldn’t tell if it was all still pretend.

Fred was laughing now at something Seamus had said from the armchair across from you. His chest shook against your side, and his arm pulled you in closer as if it were second nature. As if you belonged there. As if this was always supposed to happen.

You tilted your head toward him, a soft smile teasing at your lips.

“You’re in a suspiciously good mood tonight,” you said, nudging him playfully.

Fred gave you a lopsided grin. “I did win a Quidditch match and kiss the prettiest girl on the pitch. Can you blame me?”

Your heart did that stupid flutter again.

You scoffed through your blush, trying to act unfazed. “That kiss was for show, remember?”

“Was it?” he asked, smirking — and you couldn’t tell if he was teasing or being honest. It was always so hard to tell with Fred.

Before you could reply, George sauntered over with a smug look on his face and a Butterbeer in hand.

“Oi, Freddie,” he said with a knowing grin, “taking her up to your dorm again tonight?”

Fred raised an eyebrow, amused. “Jealous?”

George let out a dramatic whistle and wiggled his eyebrows in your direction. “Didn’t know we were playing house already.”

You threw a cushion at him, laughing. “Hush it, Weasley.”

George caught the cushion with a grin and winked. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Fred chuckled beside you. “That’s a very short list.”

As George wandered off, you looked up at Fred and cocked your head. “So? Was that an actual invitation?”

Fred leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “Only if you’re in need of some quiet. It’s chaos down here.”

You blinked. “Didn’t take you as the type to run from chaos.”

His grin deepened. “I don’t. But I do prefer my chaos in smaller doses. Select company.”

You bit your lip, trying to hide your smile. “Well then. Lead the way.”

His dorm was dim and warm, the walls cluttered with posters and Quidditch memorabilia. One wall was plastered in clippings from old Daily Prophet articles and Wizarding Wheezes product drafts — messy handwriting and colorful doodles trailing in the margins.

Fred tossed himself onto his bed and sighed dramatically. “Much better.”

You stood awkwardly near his desk, taking in the room.

A tower of Chocolate Frog boxes stood on one bookshelf. A broomstick leaned against the far wall. A pair of well-worn boots were kicked beneath the bed, and a half-eaten box of Bertie Bott’s sat open on his trunk.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Your room is exactly how I imagined it.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“No, it’s just…” You walked slowly around the room. “You in room form.”

He chuckled, then stretched like a cat, arms over his head. “M’gonna shower. Try not to snoop through my deepest secrets while I’m gone.”

“No promises.”

He winked, grabbing a towel from his bed. “Be right back, sweetheart.”

You tried not to react to the nickname as he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, the sound of running water following soon after.

And then… it was just you.

You sat down on the edge of his bed, fingers trailing across the worn comforter. Your eyes drifted again to his side of the room — the shelves lined with broken toy prototypes, half-taped sketches, and what looked like a book of Quidditch strategies stuffed beneath a stack of Exploding Snap cards.

And then you saw it.

Tucked neatly beneath the amber glow of his bedside lamp — a folded sheet of parchment. Crisp. Clean. Unmistakably familiar.

Your heart skipped.

You reached for it slowly, your fingers shaking ever so slightly as you picked it up.

Your handwriting.

The first line was visible before you even unfolded it.

“Dear Fred Weasley, I know I shouldn’t still think about you like this, but sometimes it hurts not to.”

It was one of your letters.

And not just any letter.

The letter.

The one you wrote when you thought you’d finally buried the last of those feelings. The one where you told the truth — the messy, unfiltered, honest truth about what he’d meant to you before everything got too complicated. The one you thought no one would ever read.

Yet there it was.

Sitting under his lamp like it belonged there.

Like he’d read it.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The weight of the parchment in your hand suddenly felt like a thousand pounds.

Because if he’d read it—if Fred Weasley had really read this letter—then every single wall you’d carefully built between your heart and this fake relationship just came crashing down. It was no longer some silly game, no longer pretend.

You didn’t know whether to scream or cry or laugh at how stupidly vulnerable you felt. At how real it all suddenly was.

And maybe the worst part?

A part of you hoped he had read it.

Because this version of Fred—warm, affectionate, always looking at you like you hung the stars—wasn’t that different from the Fred you wrote about all those months ago. The one who stayed up late telling you his wildest ideas, who tugged on your braid during lessons just to make you smile, who made you feel seen in ways you hadn’t even realized you needed.

But none of that was supposed to leave the page.

This was supposed to be safe. Controlled. A fake relationship to protect your real feelings.

Now?

Now your feelings were inching toward the surface again—loud, reckless, and entirely out of your hands.

You took a shaky breath and slowly folded the letter, placing it back exactly where you found it, beneath the lamp. Out of sight. Not out of mind.

Just as you sat back down on the edge of the bed, the bathroom door creaked open.

Fred stepped out with a towel slung around his neck, hair damp and tousled in every direction, a black shirt clinging to his chest and a pair of maroon-and-gold pajama pants hanging loosely on his hips.

“Miss me?” he asked with a grin, rubbing a hand through his hair.

You rolled your eyes, doing your best to play it cool despite your racing thoughts. “You were gone for ten minutes.”

He plopped down next to you on the bed, shaking his head like a wet dog. “I know. Tragic, wasn’t it?”

You laughed softly, your voice a little quieter than usual. “You were brilliant tonight, by the way. In the match.”

Fred paused, turning to look at you with an expression that wavered somewhere between smug and sheepish. “Yeah?”

You nodded, offering him a genuine smile. “Seriously. I was proud of you.”

He blinked, and for a second—just a second—you saw a soft pink color dust the tips of his ears. But Fred being Fred, he recovered quickly, flashing a smirk.

“Careful, darling. Keep talking like that and I might think you actually like me.”

You snorted, bumping your shoulder into his. “You wish.”

But the truth was, part of you did.

The conversation drifted into easy laughter again, the two of you trading stories, teasing each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it was so effortless—so dangerously close to everything you’d ever wanted—that your chest ached with the weight of it.

You stayed longer than you meant to.

Eventually, you glanced at the clock on his wall and sighed. “I should probably head back to my dorm.”

Fred looked at you for a beat, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he nodded. “Alright, sugarplum. Don’t let the staircases trip you on the way down.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, standing up and smoothing down your jumper. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said with a wink, “you keep coming back.”

You smiled, your heart squeezing in your chest.

God, you were so screwed.

The next morning came far too quickly.

Despite the weight of everything that had happened the night before—the letter, the kiss, the way Fred had looked at you like you were something he didn’t want to let go of—you somehow managed to fall asleep, only to wake up feeling like your chest was still holding onto something it hadn’t finished processing.

And now here you were.

Sat at breakfast in the Great Hall beside Fred Weasley, his large hand resting comfortably on your thigh beneath the table, thumb brushing slow, lazy circles into the fabric of your skirt as if it were second nature to him. Like this was something he did every morning. Like this was just… you two.

You’d barely taken a bite of your toast because your heart was thudding so loud it practically echoed in your ears.

Across from you sat George, Katie, and Lee—all in the middle of one of their usual chaotic, early morning debates. Something about who had the best aim in the entire Gryffindor Quidditch lineup (Katie said her, George argued himself, and Lee just kept saying “It’s obviously Angelina, she nearly broke my nose during practice once.”)

You were laughing, lips curled around the rim of your orange juice goblet when Fred leaned over toward you, muttering just low enough that only you could hear, “You look real cute when you laugh like that, sweetheart.”

You turned your head slightly, giving him a skeptical look, but the way his eyes were already focused on you—bright, amused, and just the slightest bit hungry—sent a shiver down your spine.

“You’re full of it,” you murmured, but your lips betrayed you with a smile.

Fred grinned, inching closer, his nose brushing your cheek. “Maybe. But you’re still smiling.”

And then, with the kind of confidence that came so naturally to him it made your head spin, he pressed a kiss to your cheek. Soft. Warm. Barely there.

But it stole your breath all the same.

George didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he groaned around a bite of eggs. “You two are worse than Bill and Fleur.”

Katie laughed. “I think it’s cute.”

“Yeah,” Lee added with a grin. “Cute in the way that makes me want to hex something out of jealousy.”

You flushed, burying your face slightly into your goblet just to hide the way your cheeks had gone scarlet, but Fred only chuckled beside you and tightened his hand on your thigh, fingers squeezing gently before continuing their slow, teasing strokes.

As the day went on, the lines between real and pretend blurred further.

Fred’s hand found yours in the corridor as you walked beside him, fingers laced tightly together. He leaned in during class breaks, whispering jokes against your ear, your skin tingling where his breath brushed it. He kissed your lips before Charms—right in the middle of the corridor—without a care in the world, and there wasn’t a single soul around to witness it who mattered. Not even Angelina.

And somehow… that made it worse.

Because if he was doing it just for show, there would’ve been an audience.

But there wasn’t.

There was only you.

And the soft, casual way he held you like you belonged to him.

And maybe that was the scariest part of all—because part of you wanted to belong to him. Again. Completely.

The rest of the castle moved around you, friends teasing, classes dragging, owls swooping down mid-day with care packages and letters—but you? You were somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere in the way Fred’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of your sleeve during lunch. Somewhere in the way his lips pressed to your temple before heading off to a prefect meeting, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Somewhere in that hazy space between fake and dangerously close to real.

And you were falling all over again.

The Gryffindor common room was already buzzing with noise by the time you made it downstairs. The party was well underway—music echoing off the stone walls, glowing orbs of red and gold light bobbing above everyone’s heads like fireflies, and the unmistakable scent of pumpkin pastries and Honeydukes chocolate wafting through the air. Laughter spilled out from every corner—someone had charmed the butterbeer to refill itself, and someone else (likely George) was passing out Ever-Bouncing Berries that ricocheted off the ceilings like magical confetti.

Before all that chaos, though—you were still upstairs.

Your red top hugged your frame perfectly, and the short black leather skirt had felt like a bold choice… but when you looked in the mirror, you knew it worked. You looked good. You felt good. Alicia let out a low whistle the second she saw you step out of your dorm.

“Well, damn,” she said, smirking as she eyed your outfit. “If Fred isn’t staring at you like you’ve hung the bloody moon, I’m hexing him.”

Katie grinned beside her. “Yeah, prepare yourself, love. His hands are going to be all over you tonight.”

That made your cheeks flush instantly. “You guys are awful.”

“Just honest,” Alicia said, bumping your hip with hers. “You look hot.”

Still flustered and smiling through it, you grabbed your wand and smoothed down your top one last time before making your way out of the girls’ dorm. As you descended the staircase, the music got louder, laughter and chatter layering into it all. The common room had been transformed: strings of golden lights wrapped around the banisters, cushions charmed to float midair, and the fireplace crackled with an unnatural red flame that matched the celebratory chaos perfectly.

Your eyes scanned the room, trailing over the crowd of students packed in shoulder-to-shoulder—some dancing, some chugging butterbeer, some sprawled on couches in various states of intoxicated euphoria.

Then you saw him.

Fred was tucked into the corner, drink in hand, laughing along with Seamus and Dean. The second your eyes met, it was like time stopped. He froze—mid-laugh, mid-sentence, mid-everything. His expression slackened slightly, like he hadn’t been prepared to be completely knocked off his axis.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Hard.

You smirked.

The moment was yours now.

With slow, deliberate steps, you crossed the room, weaving between bodies until you reached him. Fred blinked down at you, mouth parted ever so slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“Close your mouth, Weasley,” you teased, tugging on the hem of your top playfully. “You’re going to catch a Snitch in it.”

He blinked again, then broke into that familiar, heart-stopping grin. “You tryin’ to kill me, darling? ‘Cause I think you just succeeded.”

Your cheeks burned despite yourself. “It’s just a skirt.”

“It’s not just a skirt when it’s on you,” he replied smoothly, his voice dipping just slightly as his gaze flicked down and then back to your face. “Merlin, you’re going to be the death of me tonight.”

“Flatterer,” you said, brushing your fingers over his arm. “You look decent yourself.”

“Decent?” he scoffed. “Sweetheart, I’m hurt.”

You laughed, and his hands found your waist—pulling you just a little closer. There was a soft beat of music pulsing through the floorboards beneath your feet, but it was nothing compared to the rhythm of your heart in your chest.

Before you could respond, you heard Katie’s voice from across the room. “Oi! Come dance with us!”

Alicia and Angelina were already waving you over, motioning toward the dance floor that had formed in the middle of the room. You turned back to Fred, who let out a small, exaggerated sigh and slowly removed his hands from your waist.

“Go on, then,” he said, giving you a crooked grin. “But don’t blame me if I come steal you back.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would,” he murmured. “I absolutely would.”

With a breathy laugh, you turned and made your way toward your friends, letting the music pull you in. You swayed with the beat, arms lifted as you danced beside Alicia and Katie. The rhythm buzzed in your veins as you let go of everything else for a moment—just letting yourself be in the music, the laughter, the warmth of the room.

But you felt it—before you saw it.

A presence behind you. A shift in the air.

And then, his voice—low, teasing—right against your ear. “Merlin, you’re making it really hard to behave tonight.”

You turned, heart skipping, to see Fred standing behind you, a grin dancing on his lips.

“I knew you’d come back,” you said with a raised brow.

He stepped closer. “Couldn’t stay away. Not when you’re dancing like that.”

Your stomach flipped as he offered you his hand with a slight bow. “May I have this dance?”

You took it without hesitation.

He spun you around effortlessly, your laughter ringing through the room as you stumbled into his chest. The two of you danced—really danced. Spinning, laughing, holding onto each other as the crowd blurred around you. Fred dipped you playfully, caught you in his arms, and whispered flirty little remarks that made your face burn and your heart race.

But eventually… the laughter died down.

Your giggles slowed.

And then it was just the two of you.

The music faded beneath the sound of your breathing. Fred’s hands settled on your waist, your palms resting against his chest. You looked up at him—really looked. And he looked back.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then rose to meet your gaze again.

“Careful, Freddie,” you whispered, voice low and teasing. “You’re starting to make me think this is more than a game to you.”

Fred’s lips twitched, but his eyes didn’t waver. “Who says it isn’t anymore?”

Your breath caught.

You stared at him, chest tightening, mouth parted slightly in stunned silence. His hands gently trailed from your waist, fingers brushing your sides until they landed on your cheeks.

And then—he kissed you.

No games. No teasing. No charade.

Just him.

Just you.

His lips were warm and familiar and dizzying all at once, his kiss deep and full of something that set your nerves on fire. You kissed him back without thinking, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as he held you close, not caring that people around you had stopped to look.

When you both pulled away—breathless, flushed, reeling—Fred still hadn’t let go.

“Come outside with me,” he said, his voice quieter now, more serious. “I need to tell you something.”

You nodded, heart hammering in your chest.

The cool night air was a stark contrast to the warmth inside, but it helped clear your head just enough to process that something was changing.

You turned to him once you were a few steps from the common room door.

Fred was staring at the stars—then at you.

“I… I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he began, voice a little shakier than you’d ever heard. “This was supposed to be pretend, yeah. Just a stupid idea. Make Angelina jealous, whatever. But…”

His eyes met yours again.

“After the second day, it didn’t feel fake anymore. Not even a little. And then you wore that stupid jumper. And kissed me back. And stood there in that crowd looking at me like I was worth something—and I realized I’ve always loved you. Always. I just didn’t let myself admit it.”

You blinked, your heart splintering at the edges.

“And now,” he added with a sheepish grin, “you’ve gone and ruined me.”

You let out a breathless laugh, then stepped forward, placing your hand gently on his cheek.

“Fred Weasley,” you whispered. “You absolute idiot. I never stopped loving you. I just… never thought you’d actually feel the same.”

He leaned in again, nose brushing yours.

“I do,” he murmured. “So much.”

And then—you kissed him again.

This one slower. Sweeter.

Filled with everything that had been left unsaid.

When you finally broke apart, you were both smiling, hands still tangled together.

“So,” Fred said, his voice light again. “Does this mean I get to call you mine?”

You smirked. “If you behave.”

“Oh, I won’t.”

“Good.”

And just like that, it wasn’t a game anymore.

You were his.

And he was yours.

Officially.

283 notes · View notes

lumosflairr · 8 days ago

Note

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 - 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲

warnings: suggestive joke, once.

word count: 10.2k

taglist: @aouoo @plumbum4 @D3ad-Daisyz @moramaybe @iluvhrj @losers-want-to-win @billieeilishkisser @divineani @lilians17

There were five letters.

They were to:

5. Michael Corner – A brief crush that died the moment he started dating Ginny Weasley. You wrote his letter half-heartedly, just to get it out of your system. It worked.

Five letters. Five pieces of your heart, written with no intention of ever being sent.

And yet, somehow, they were gone.

It happened on a Monday. A normal, average, nothing-out-of-the-ordinary Monday. Until it wasn’t.

You stared at the empty space, blinking. Maybe you moved it? Maybe you took it out and forgot? You pulled books down, tossed aside your spare quills and loose parchment, even looked under your bed.

Nothing.

Panic crawled up your throat.

“Winnie?” you called to your roommate, who was brushing her hair in the mirror, “Did you move anything from my shelf?”

She glanced back, half-paying attention. “No, why?”

You swallowed. “The tin I kept behind my books. It’s missing.”

Your heart stopped.

George. Bloody. Weasley.

Fred and George Weasley.

No.

No, no, no.

A letter. Your letter.

The wax seal had been cracked.

You froze mid-step. “Fred—”

George grinned like the devil himself. “So, these are yours, huh? They just showed up in our dorm this morning. No note, no explanation. Bit mysterious. Naturally, we opened one.”

“I didn’t open any!” George said quickly. “That was him.” He pointed a smug finger at his twin.

You took a breath, heart racing. “Give. Them. Back.”

But Fred was already standing, holding your letter to him just out of reach. “Hang on, love. You wrote this?” His voice wasn’t teasing. Not yet. “You liked me?”

Past tense. You clung to it like a lifeline. “It was years ago.”

Fred’s brow lifted. “Says here I made you laugh during Potions and that you thought I had nice hands.”

Your entire face went hot. “Fred—”

“I do have nice hands, though,” he said thoughtfully, examining them. “Long fingers. Very useful for pranks and snatching love letters out of the air, apparently.”

You made a desperate grab for it, but he pulled it away with ease. “This is serious! These weren’t meant to be read!”

Fred’s gaze hadn’t left the letter. He tapped it against his palm, quiet now.

You glared at both of them. “If you tell anyone—”

Fred cut you off, voice calmer. “I won’t.”

You looked up, surprised.

He tucked the letter into his coat pocket like it belonged there. “But you and I,” he added with a grin slowly spreading across his face, “should talk.”

Your stomach flipped.

He looked intrigued.

And that was much, much more dangerous.

But Fred Weasley didn’t do any of those things.

You barely had time to open your mouth before he grabbed your arm and steered you into an empty corridor.

“Let me guess,” you said flatly, yanking your arm free. “You want to frame it? Hang it over your bed so you can admire yourself more efficiently?”

You groaned. “Fred—”

“I’m kidding,” he said quickly, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Sort of. But I’m not here to take the mickey out of you, alright?”

You eyed him suspiciously.

“I’m actually here to make you a deal.”

That got your attention. “A deal?”

He looked around dramatically, then leaned in like he was about to reveal the location of a secret passageway Filch didn’t even know about. “We fake-date.”

You stared. “We what?”

“You and me,�� he said, pointing between the two of you. “Public hand-holding, flirty looks across the Great Hall, sitting next to each other at meals, all that. We give people something to talk about.”