possibility - fred weasley
pairing: fred weasley x slytherin!reader
(it can be read as a one-shot) (part 02 here!)
summary: Amidst the boredom, an unexpected connection sparks between (Y/N) and the charismatic mischief-maker, Fred Weasley.
note: They are in their last year at Hogwarts, so, for purposes, they are 18; besides, the whole canon of the book (it would've been Order of the Phoenix) is mostly nonexistent here.
the reader: can be interpreted as someone with ADHD; she loves literature and she has no friends.
words: 7580
Enjoy!
The lesson trudged on, dripping with tedium.
In truth, (y/n) quite liked Professor Flitwick. She had, in fact, eagerly accepted his invitation to become his assistant whenever the First Years graced his class. Being an assistant delighted her to no end. Yet, being a student, well, that was a different cauldron of bubbling potion altogether.
Today, Flitwick's lecture on Spellcasting and its perils was dragging on and on. As a sixth-year student, the curriculum seemed more intent on delving into existing knowledge than offering exciting novelties. While these topics might hold allure for a future Auror or the like, they were a one-way ticket to Boredomville for her.
Ever since (y/n) had decided upon her career path – a decision that seemed to have been brewed in the deepest recesses of her being – most of her classes had metamorphosed into a soporific ordeal. Hogwarts wasn't particularly renowned for its prowess in teaching language and literature, but that was precisely where her ambitions lay. A writer, a wordsmith, perhaps even an editor or a high school pedagogue. Anything that would let her commune with the magic of words, not the sort that burst from wands.
Now, she wasn't a woeful spell caster by any means. Professor Flitwick wouldn't have sought her assistance if she weren't a smart witch. But, her heart preferred the dance of ink on parchment over the intricacies of wand-waving, often rendering her classroom hours relatively inconsequential.
Seeking refuge from this stifling monotony, (y/n) allowed her gaze to wander. And in this sea of faces, her eyes collided with Fred Weasley – the school's most notorious ginger-haired mischief-maker. He was already watching her, a mask of effortless nonchalance draped over his face. He raised his brows at her, noticing she was staring back, and he did not look away. And so, they locked eyes, neither relinquishing the connection. It was not a duel of gazes; it was more like a shared secret, a silent agreement over how tedious the class was.
A minute passed in this silent communion until Fred graced her with a faint smile. The spell was broken, and her attention returned to her empty parchment. A quiet sigh fluttered like a long-forgotten page being turned, but it vanished into the air, unheard by all but her.
With pen in hand, she felt an almost magical compulsion to transcribe Flitwick's words onto her parchment. His voice, though droning before, now seemed less boring.
“To its nature, we shall survive it, but the opponent targetted... not so much,” the professor intoned, the words finally finding their mark within her consciousness. Cruel nature, indeed. “Well,” she mused, her back moulding into her chair as her quill danced across the parchment, “Every spell I remember does possess a hint of danger.”
At long last, her notes held substance, and her enthusiasm, while subdued, had been rekindled. Her gaze again drifted sideways to where Fred Weasley was, only to find he had shifted his focus – to his twin, George.
They sat side by side, mirror images of naughtiness. (y/n) sometimes forgot that they were identical twins because she was so used to having them around that they started to look apart. George's height had a mere smidgen of variance, while Fred's nose was a tad more prominent. Freckles played a symphony across their faces, arranging themselves differently – Fred’s were more concentrated around his forehead. Yet, at that moment, as (y/n) blinked through her confusion, she wondered if she'd mixed up their features. Had she glimpsed George's grin instead?
But then, as if choreographed by fate, Fred resumed his original posture and caught her looking. His lips curled into an unmistakable smirk. “It's certainly Fred, then,” she thought, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, unwanted. She redirected her attention back to the good Professor Flitwick and his lesson, and weirdly enough, after all that gazing, she had regained her focus and was more ready to be a satisfactory student.
Amidst her studies, (y/n) was ensconced within the library's embrace.
This day bestowed upon the library an uncommon hush, a tranquillity that seemed to defy the norm. The librarian always managed to get the kids quiet, but she couldn't stop them from coming all at once when frenzied by the looming spectre of approaching exams.
However, an anomaly unfolded on that Friday afternoon, bestowing upon (y/n) the most unexpected gift – the library, in all its boundless expanse, was hers to claim. A rarity that, peculiarly, she found herself not enjoying. Amidst the solitude, her focus waned like a candle in a draft, flickering and unstable. Concentration eluded her, much like the fleeting caress of a dream upon waking. Reading, that intimate act of solitary exploration, seemed to have metamorphosed into a daunting endeavour. It was one thing to lose oneself in tales of princesses or the adventures of chiselled, sun-kissed heroes, but an entirely different ordeal to grapple with the intricate world of potion brewing.
For (y/n), the allure of fantasy books or any literary work was nothing short of enchanting, capable of whisking her away on wings of imagination. These volumes, she devoured with unbridled speed. Yet, a profound disinterest surged within her when it came to the theoretical tomes packed with knowledge mirroring the lectures she endured. If she were to be entirely frank, she might even admit a smidgen of disdain for these volumes.
So she would never take them to the dorms with her — she would much rather read them in the library, filled with other students. The presence of others functioned as a gentle but firm tether, binding her to the task at hand – reading, absorbing, and taking notes. The collective energy of focused minds bolstered her resolve.
Alas, a rather desolate air hung over the library's expanse on this day.
Thrice (y/n) had shifted her position, seeking companionship in proximity, only for her hopes to be dashed within thirty minutes. A sigh, tinged with resignation, escaped her lips, and in that crestfallen moment, a shock of crimson manifested in her field of vision. A pair of vibrant red-headed twins strode in. Nestled at the tables near the corridor's entrance, she watched them meander, their steps unhurried, eyes wandering. “Searching," her inner voice concluded. Certainly, the twins held a more potent allure than the secrets of cauldron cleaning or its ilk, a fact her current book seemed intent on imparting.
Though (y/n) watched from her vantage point, removed yet intrigued, the twins' presence would've caught anyone's attention had there been any other student around. As their gaze swept the expanse, (y/n)'s musings dipped into the realm of speculation, imagining the myriad thoughts dancing behind those crimson veils.
In a place where solitude was typically her archenemy, she now sat pondering the enigma of the Weasley twins, the allure of their presence momentarily overshadowing the dusty tomes that lay before her.
Fred and George stood at a distance, too far for (y/n) to gain a comprehensive view. Instead, they ambulated the space with a purpose that eluded onlookers – a relentless quest for something unbeknownst to her. As they wandered, their forms flickered in and out of her view, now one visible, then none, then both, and once more only one boy.
Fixated on the one nearer her, she strained her vision to discern. Could it be Fred? A question played a merry dance in her mind, teasing but refusing to commit to a definitive answer. His profile was turned towards the shelves, a curtain of red hair obscuring details. Besides, distinguishing the twins remained a daunting task without a survey of their noses.
Abruptly, a voice infiltrated her thoughts, causing her to startle in her seat, “You know we saw you, right?”
She swivelled around, only to be met by the missing twin positioned just behind her. Leaning over her chair's backrest, he inclined his head inquisitively, a solitary auburn eyebrow arching with playful curiosity. Witnessing her wide-eyed astonishment, the Weasley released a soft, subdued chuckle, a mischievous symphony woven into the sound. “If you want my brother's number, you can just ask,” he added.
So the one talking to her was Fred. She quickly glanced at his nose bridge, trying to see the intricated details left by a Quidditch match gone wrong, yet his voice functioned as the telltale sign. He audacity to issue such a provocative remark to a girl with whom they held only the most tenuous of connections – that could only be Fred's doing. Moreover, his tone carried a specific timbre distinct from George's. It was, for lack of a better word, smoother to her auditory senses. Not that George's voice was anything less than agreeable, but his was a quieter, more reserved resonance. She mused that her lack of familiarity with George's vocal cadence stemmed from his status as the quieter half of the duo, while Fred's unending stream of chatter had made his vocal imprint indelible in her ears.
A manufactured laugh escaped her lips, a tinkling facade, "Haha, Weasley. I don't want no one's number."
Fred inclined his head, a bemused glint in his eyes as if coaxing her to reveal more.
Nestled more comfortably in her chair, she raised her chin a fraction, a silent assertion that she was unreservedly facing the boy. This small shift seemed to foster a sense of openness between them.
"Studying is boring, so you guys looked like a distraction," she declared with a nonchalant shrug.
His voice dripped with theatrical incredulity, “We? A distraction?” Fred's lips curled into a playful smile, his head tilting as he leaned slightly away. He stood tall, towering over most, a fact he seemingly embraced with ease. Though his height wasn't sufficient to overshadow Ron (a surprise, really), it cast a considerable shadow over (y/n), particularly in her seated state. The disparity in stature unfolded in a tableau that her neck found almost physically taxing to endure.
With the book held closer to her chest, (y/n) drew a deep breath, her response tinged with a touch of exasperation, “Honestly, anything is a preferable pursuit than deciphering 'how to brew... a potion.'” Her fingers clutched the book, the page title a weighty secret she held close, refusing to vocalise it aloud.
An unexpected shift occurred as Fred commandeered the neighbouring chair, situating it with a proximity that nudged their personal space. “And weirdly enough," he said. Lowering himself into the seat, he offered a sly grin, his gaze steady upon her, “You always get good grades at Snape's classes.” A movement almost imperceptible – a twitch of the head, a hint of satisfaction – played upon his features.
(y/n) registered the proximity with an awareness that tickled her senses. The book, her veiled treasure, lay nestled in her grasp, poised for closure to deter prying eyes.
She shrugged, expecting him to forget what she held close, “I'm Slytherin, after all.”
“Ah,” Fred snapped his tongue in the roof of his mouth, a sound almost as if he had drunk something and was now satisfied.
Shifting her gaze quickly at George, she hoped he would come to her rescue and take his twin away.
“Not so fast,” Fred interjected, his large hand sweeping down to rest atop the book's cover. “What secrets are you hiding there?”
Her gaze flitted from his eyes to his hand, a growing wariness churning within her. Her fingers tensed around the book, futilely attempting to shield its contents. But deftly, the book was relinquished from her hold and into his.
His melodious voice breathed life into the words etched on the page, “Let's unravel this mystery... 'How to Brew a Love Potion,'” he read aloud, his playful and teasing tone. Amusement twinkled in his eyes as they danced up to meet hers. “Wow, (y/n), I'd never take you for one who needed a love potion.”
To match his wit, (y/n) maintained her playful gaze, a smirk curving her lips as her retort unfurled, “Oh, I don't know, Fred. Perhaps that's my secret to acing Snape's classes.”
Not even the weight of dark humour could ruffle Fred Weasley's composure. His smirk swelled, infused with a brew of mischief that danced in his eyes. “If that's the case, you're terrible at it. I distinctly recall a certain incident involving Snape's homework, and if memory serves, it nearly rendered you floundering.”
She averted her gaze, her attention shifting to the captured book still cradled within his hands, the prospect of regaining it receding into the distance.
“Thanks for the recall, top-tier student,” she quipped, a playful glint in her eyes. “Now, are you willing to tell me your secrets? What are you doing here, in the library?”
Fred's laughter danced like a secret melody, an intimate note that lingered in the air, his eyes shimmering with a clandestine glimmer. “What's life without a little mystery?” he joked, his voice a velvety caress.
She mirrored his stance, a symmetrical lean that brought them closer, the gap between their faces now an invitation. Their proximity wove a delicate tapestry between their banter and a realm of deeper connection. “Is that so?” she inquired, her words drawn out in a languid purr, the air heavy with a mingling of intrigue and allure.
He matched her pace without the need to ask. The dance of their words had woven a tapestry of amusement, their shared enjoyment eclipsing the pursuit of concrete answers. After all, Fred barely had learned a secret. He was smart enough to know (y/n)'s book had been opened on a random page.
“If I tell you why I'm here,” he mused; his gaze, which had been steadfastly locked onto her eyes, dared trace a path to her lips, “what will you give me in return?”
(y/n) thought herself very wicked when her answer came quickly, “A love potion?” she playfully suggested.
His smile faltered, his breathing taking on a deeper rhythm, a transformation she couldn't help but notice.
“I don't need that,” he purred, voice dipping lower, “however, you...”
An eye-roll framed her response, though she didn't retreat from his proximity.
“Weasley...” her voice began, her tone laden with a mix of exasperation and uncertainty, an attempt to convey a sentiment she was grappling to articulate.
“Fred,” he interjected, the word a soft murmur, his eyes holding hers earnestly. Noticing her bemusement, he continued with a gentle lilt, “Call me Fred.”
She processed his words, pondering the significance of calling him by his name instead of his surname – a departure from the collective label that often accompanied the Weasley clan around Hogwarts.
A nervous throat clearing preceded her tentative utterance, “Fred." She tested the name as if savouring the syllables as if she did not know it before.
Flirting was an uncharted territory for (y/n), a realm she now tiptoed into, fueled by trepidation and exhilaration.
“Lucian Flewchief's book.”
The words hung suspended, (y/n)'s brow furrowing as she sought to decipher their meaning. Was that Fred’s way of flirting back? Suggesting a book? (y/n) was puzzled. That was a new way of flirting she never knew of, but she hoped the book was some young adult fae fantasy.
Fred's perception of her confusion prompted him to lean back slightly, dissipating the cosy bubble they'd woven. He clarified, “That's our objective here – locating Lucian Flewchief's book."
Her understanding unfurled with an "oh" of realisation, the pieces clicking into place.
“We're also the reason behind the library's current solitude,” he continued, an impish glint in his eyes. “George and I orchestrated a bit of a distraction to ensure we could slip away without drawing any undue attention, Godric forbid, with a book in tow!”
So that explained why she was the only one lingering at the library. Though it made sense, it stirred a tinge of melancholy within her.
Curiosity nudged her to question further, her tone now coloured with intrigue. “Who is this guy? Flewchief? And why the necessity for secrecy around his book?” Her queries were genuine and earnest, though sadness crept into her voice as their playful exchange segued into a more sober dialogue.
Fred swayed his head before replying, “He's a master at pranks.”
An eyebrow arched in response, (y/n)'s curiosity unabated. While she may not have been an expert in the art of pranking, one would expect to have heard of such a renowned figure, right?
Observing her perplexity, Fred inhaled deeply before disclosing, his voice lowered almost to a whisper, “He's a muggle author.”
Recognition flashed across (y/n)'s face, though she remained silent. Yet, subtle shifts in her posture – a subtle sag of her shoulders, a slight tightening of her lips – betrayed a sentiment that did not escape Fred's notice. He understood the Slytherin disposition all too well; prejudices were not uncommon.
She unravelled a piece of herself with an unexpected candour, her words confounding Fred's expectations. Instead of disparaging comments or dismissing glances, she offered something else entirely.
“I want to be a writer for muggles,” she confessed, her voice tinged with vulnerability. “I like to write fantasy, you know. But that's not a genre for wizards; our reality often rivals the most fantastical of fiction. So, my focus turns toward the muggle readers.”
Though caught off guard by the revelation, Fred remained silent, feeling a surge of admiration for her. He hadn't anticipated such a response.
“I can help you find Flewchief's book,” she offered, swiftly transitioning past the exposure of her own secret, determined not to let her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I know this library well, particularly the section reserved for muggle authors. I presume you and George have little familiarity with the place.”
A crooked smile curled upon his lips in response. “Indeed,” he admitted with a chuckle, “you could even say 'no familiarity'; it's quite fitting.”
While (y/n) couldn't quite fathom how any student or individual could navigate life without venturing into the depths of a library, she empathized with their unfamiliarity. The muggle literature section was cloaked in segregation as if Hogwarts itself was disconcerted by such volumes.
Rising from her seat, she gathered her assortment of potion books. Truth be told, she harboured no illusions about accomplishing any meaningful research that afternoon. She left only one book behind – the one currently cradled in Fred's grasp.
“Are you coming or…?" Her voice hung in the air, a hint of playful theatricality accompanying her question.
Promptly, Fred sprang from his chair, the solitary book still in his possession. With (y/n) as his guide, they embarked on a journey through the library's labyrinthine aisles. Initially, they returned her stack of books to Madam Irma Pince, whose sole acknowledgement was a fleeting glance, her eyes flitting over the pile as it landed on her counter. Her gaze flickered momentarily as if recognition finally settled in at the sight of the redheaded companion beside (y/n).
“A Weasley," Madam Irma Pince declared, her observation stating the obvious. Fred, however, found himself grappling with an appropriate response. Ultimately, he opted for a shrug, his head tilting in acquiescence.
“I’m Fred,” he offered, his voice laced with a touch of formality. “But, you are absolutely correct, I am a Weasley."
It was abundantly clear that the librarian was well aware of which Weasley he was.
“Don’t tear my books apart,” she cautioned, her voice edged with warning. “And don’t you dare burn this place down.”
Fred's lips pressed into a tight line, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. He responded with a curt, “Noted."
(y/n) glanced up at Fred and then to the side, studying his expression. His tone left her somewhat perplexed – she couldn't discern if he was indulging in sarcastic provocation or if he held genuine offence at Madam Irma Pince's admonitions. She reflected that the torrent of criticisms from every adult figure must have been tiring. Yet, the twins hadn't acquired their notoriety by chance; their reputation as school pranksters was well-earned.
The three exchanged furtive glances before Madam Irma Pince averted her gaze to her counter. Her intentions, on the other side, remained veiled to (y/n). Fred possessed the capability to peek, but (y/n) held doubts about him exercising that prerogative.
Clearing her throat, (y/n) eased away from the librarian, and Fred followed suit.
“Take me to George,” she requested. Detecting Fred's immediate confusion, she elaborated, “So both of you can scour the shelves for the books. I can assist, but I'm not quite tall enough to reach all of the shelves.”
“Again," Fred inclined his head toward her, and at that moment, a subtle shift occurred, the playful dance of flirtation vanishing as swiftly as it had emerged, “Thank you for the assistance”. His expression was appreciative, genuine, a quiet acknowledgement of her assistance.
With a soft smile, she replied, “Don't mention it," her voice bearing a hushed quality, her gaze evading direct eye contact. “You’ll just own me one.”
He chuckled, “Uh, the unspoken possibilities.”
Indeed, Fred. Indeed.
It was a rather cold day.
But it was Saturday and Hogsmeade trip day, so (y/n) put on her thickest coat and decided to face the snow.
Her fellow housemates buzzed with excitement, eagerly anticipating the visit. Yet, for (y/n), this outing held a more sombre purpose – a pilgrimage to Honeydukes. While her friends were pursuing quills and ingredients, (y/n) sought only solace in candy. These past few days had been trying, and the kitchen house elves had quietly declared her persona non grata, etching “no longer welcomed" onto their secret walls. So she’d have to buy her own sweets from now on.
“Feeling hot today?” a voice chimed from behind (y/n).
She clutched herself, attempting to stave off the relentless cold. Hogsmeade always exuded a chill, but it seemed that nature was intent on pushing the mercury even lower today. Not even her trusty coat could entirely repel the biting wind.
The voice was familiar; she recognised it as belonging to Fred Weasley.
“Where’s your other half?” she asked, noticing George wasn’t around.
“At the school,” Fred replied, bridging the distance with a few long strides. Given the frigid weather, (y/n) moved slowly, rivalling the old ladies of Diagon Alley. “He's caught the flu.”
A chuckle escaped (y/n), though her amusement was laced with empathy. “After today, I might end up just as sick.”
Fred mirrored her laughter, his eyes gleaming with a twinkle. Then, shifting his gaze towards their right, his expression became more earnest. “Come on, let’s get you something warm. Tea?”
True to his suggestion, Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop loomed just a few steps away.
(y/n) scanned her surroundings, from Fred to the inviting facade of the shop, and for a fleeting moment, the idea appealed to her. But then, a mental alarm sounded – this place was renowned for romantic trysts, a haven for couples from their year. For a time, (y/n) had considered herself above such traditions. But as her sixteenth birthday came and went, and she remained unattached, she longed for the experience of a boy inviting her to tea. Now, at eighteen, it seemed more a fanciful dream than a tangible possibility.
So Fred was definitely not suggesting it as a date.
“I actually have to head to Honeydukes,” she replied, her features arranged in a grimace, and she gestured with her body towards the store at the far end of the bustling Hogsmeade street. “That's the only reason I'm still here.”
Fred bit his lip in thought. “How about we grab a tea to go, then?” he proposed, his determination unwavering. He peered down at her, shivering in the cold, taking in her petite frame. “In less than fifteen minutes, you'll be on your way back to Hogwarts.”
The notion of sipping on something piping hot was increasingly appealing.
“Promise?” she asked, her tone a touch childlike.
Fred extended his pinky finger, encased in a slightly faded red glove – likely a Weasley hand-me-down. Not that (y/n) considered herself entitled or wealthy, but it was common knowledge that the Weasleys weren't the richest in monetary terms. Yet, they were undeniably wealthy in children.
Her own pinky fingers remained nestled deep within her pockets, safe from the cold. Fred glanced down and chuckled.
“Come on.”
She sighed, “Fine, Weasley. But you're footing the bill,” and when she noticed he was about to playfully protest, she added, “You were the one who insisted, after all.”
They walked together, resembling a pair of penguins navigating the icy terrain. (y/n)’s hands, nestled within her coat pockets, were shielded from the biting cold, yet their elbows still grazed one another now and then as they strolled leisurely.
Fred gallantly held the door open, allowing her to enter the cosy shop, and she expressed her gratitude in a soft murmur. While he proceeded to the counter to place their order (when queried, (y/n) simply requested, “Any tea will do, as long as it's the hottest available"), she contemplated the peculiar friendship that had taken root between them.
She'd never been an opponent of Fred, or the Weasleys, or anyone within Gryffindor, as one might have assumed. However, their closeness was a relatively recent development. When confronted with one of the twins' pranks, (y/n) was often the first to laugh, captivated by the sheer audacity of their exploits. She believed magic should be harnessed for amusement, not as a weapon; consequently, she found their approach to their magical talents endearing.
Because of her laughter, Fred and George had never targeted her with their pranks. Their mischief was generally directed at Malfoy and his ilk. Occasionally, she'd return to her common room and find something amiss, but she understood it was their way of rebelling against the entirety of Slytherin and its values rather than a personal affront.
By her fifth year, (y/n) considered Fred and George her acquaintances. They exchanged nods in the classrooms and other shared spaces. Being in the same year, she had grown accustomed to their voices and learned to differentiate between them.
Moreover, the Weasley twins had a certain charisma that she couldn't deny. She had met Fred’s older brothers before, so their good looks were no surprise. She realised this charm extended to Fred as he approached with two cups of steaming tea.
His freckles had always been a distinctive feature she admired. Yet now, she also noticed the appeal of his height, his shoulders broad and strong, typical of a Beater. His hair appeared soft and straight, inviting her fingers to run through its fiery strands, although she knew better than to entertain such notions.
Strangely, it was his nose that intrigued her the most. It was the distinguishing feature that allowed her to differentiate between Fred and George. She found it more masculine and captivating than the rest of his features. Not to mention his chest, which had once tantalisingly revealed his abs through a sweaty Quidditch shirt during a match. The sport certainly worked wonders on bodies.
“Thank you,” she said before taking a sip. She freed her hands from her pockets only with the prospect of holding something scolding hot.
Fred observed her closely as she tasted the tea, noticing how her eyes momentarily closed in bliss and how her body seemed to uncoil, the tension in her shoulders dissipating.
“All right, off to Honeydukes I go," she declared, pivoting towards the Tea Shop's exit.
Fred followed her, hastening to hold the door open once more. A subtle blush dusted her cheeks, and she was relieved that the shop was still relatively empty. A couple occupied a dimly lit corner but seemed too concentrated on each other to notice Fred Weasley being nice to a Slytherin girl. So that’s saying a lot about how entertained that random teenage couple was.
As they stepped back into the brisk Hogsmeade air, (y/n) noticed that Fred was still at her side. She didn't voice any complaint, though. Ever since the day he had sought her help at the library, she had resigned herself to the idea that she might never get the opportunity to converse with Fred alone again. George was always around, and if not him, then someone else. And even though, if she tried, (y/n) could engage in conversation with the other twin or with a Gryffindor student, she would rather not.
In fact, it was rare to find someone she would like to engage in conversation with.
Fred was a… welcoming surprise.
“Uh," Fred's voice cut through the silence, which had settled between them as they enjoyed their tea, “can we make a quick stop here?"
They were passing by Zonko's Joke Shop, renowned for its extensive collection of prankster essentials. Of course, the shop would undoubtedly be on Fred's daily checklist. However, his request to pause at the store intrigued (y/n), given that she had never envisioned walking with him that day. Sure, he had treated her to tea, but that hardly counted as an expense, and she had mentioned her eagerness to return to Hogwarts promptly.
“It won't take long, I promise," he assured her, taking note of her delayed response. “Just add five more minutes to your wait. I'll escort you back, no worries."
(y/n) hesitated for a moment. “You really don't have to do that," she replied, taken aback by his gentlemanly offer.
“As if I'd let you make the journey alone."
She gazed at him in the wake of his response. “I'm a witch," she pointed out the obvious. “It's not like I can't handle a few dangers."
Fred cocked his head, a teasing remark on the tip of his tongue. “Can you defend yourself against the cold?"
She didn't respond; her answer would have been a resounding ‘no.'
“That's what I thought," he declared, a knowing smile dancing on his lips.
She arched an eyebrow, her free hand resting on her hip, her other still cradling her tea. “And what can you do to protect me from the cold?" she challenged Fred.
His smile grew, and he knew he had the perfect response. “Keep you from slipping on the icy ground."
Annoyed by his accuracy, she sighed loudly as they entered the joke shop.
The shop was bubbling with people: it was a living organism. (y/n) struggled to recall the last time she had set foot in this place. She had certainly visited the joke shop before, back in her third year when students were first allowed to venture into the village. Like her peers, she had eagerly explored every store without exception. However, as time passed, most of the shops had become familiar and somewhat ordinary to her. She only made the trip to Hogsmeade with a purpose now. Coming just for butterbeer seemed pointless, especially when she lacked the company of friends to sit with and share laughter.
So, following Fred Weasley as he browsed around the shop put her in a silent trance of observation and gaping. He moved confidently, searching for items and locating them quickly, with the same precision she'd demonstrated when she'd guided him through the library the other day. (y/n) followed at his heels, like a child following its guardian. In less than three minutes, they were already in line to pay.
“How do you know where everything is?" she asked, enjoying the moment of calm the checkout line offered. “I don't think gathering all that took you more than five minutes."
And it was indeed quite a haul. Fred's two hands cradled dozens of boxes and items like precious cargo in his lap. The teacup he had been carrying was now held securely by (y/n), ensuring that her hands were occupied with warm objects to fend off the cold.
Fred responded with a casual shrug to her question. “How do you know where all the books are in the library?" he countered.
“I don't know," she replied, her response unfiltered. “I guess I've just memorised it over time."
“Me too," he said, his eyes fixed on the shop as if watching his beloved. “Not to give reason to my fame at Hogwarts, but of course, my favourite shop has to be Zonko’s."
The line at the checkout stretched long, leaving (y/n) and Fred standing in contemplative silence, pondering the curious connection that seemed to be budding between them. Amid it all, (y/n)'s thoughts swelled like a bubbling potion. Were they friends now? Could she consider adding him to her list of friends for Christmas shopping? These questions lingered, but she found herself without a clear answer. It felt odd to directly ask such a thing; friends didn’t ask if they were friends. They either were or weren’t, organically becoming over time.
But despite the comfort she felt around Fred, she couldn't quite label it friendship. The issue, she concluded, was her own. She had a deficit of friends and now understood why: she wasn't wired for it. Friendship wasn't part of her programming. Fred, on the other hand, was a different breed. Friendship was his natural state, woven into his very essence. He exuded a friendly aura, even if many Slytherins would vehemently disagree.
She didn't need to wonder whether he considered her a friend. He most likely did. He never targeted her with pranks; he exchanged glances with her in class often and was currently offering to escort her back to school. Fred saw her as a friend.
But did she want that?
“What are you thinking?” he inquired, pulling her out of her contemplative reverie.
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie,” he said, relaxing his shoulders. “I can see the smoke coming out of your ears like a cauldron.”
She had no clever reply, so she was content with wrinkling her forehead and lying. “I’m thinking about how quickly I will be able to get all the candy I want. Definitely not as quick as you, here.”
He frowned, puzzled. “Why?”
“I love candy and definitely know where everything is at the shop,” she explained, tilting her head unconsciously as she spoke. She explained, unconsciously tilting her head while talking. “But I have to gather enough to last until our next trip to Hogsmeade, and I'm not certain I can calculate that. I love chocolate, so one would assume I'd need to buy a lot to make it last. However, if I get too much, I'll eat more than I should. And trust me, I will eat everything I buy," she concluded with a hint of warning in her tone, as if she were issuing a threat rather than sharing a piece of information.
Fred swallowed hard, trying to wrap his head around her unique thought process. “Are you stockpiling sweets?"
She nodded, feeling a twinge of embarrassment.
“Well, if you do end up eating it all, I'll show you where to get more, you know, from the kitchen with the house elves," he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up as if he were secretly pleased with himself for sharing this tidbit.
“Oh, Weasley," she shook her head, dramatically feigning pitifulness. “I already know the secret passage to the kitchen. That's precisely why I have to stockpile chocolate in the first place. I've been painted as a criminal there for how many sweets I've pilfered."
He couldn't help but chuckle, though he kept it discreet.
“I can't believe it," Fred said with mock disbelief, then paused as if pondering again. “Well, actually, I can."
With the two cups of tea-to-go in her hands, she raised her shoulders in a half-shrug while raising her hands in tandem.
“So yeah," she concluded, “I have to stock up until the Professors allow us to come here again."
Staring at him, (y/n) couldn't help but think that Fred was on the verge of saying something. However, something must have caused him to change his mind, and he remained uncharacteristically silent. A few seconds later, he was called to the cashier to settle the bill for his items. (y/n) patiently waited behind him, casually sipping her tea.
When Fred returned to her side, the numerous small boxes he'd been clutching had been consolidated into just two cardboard bags, which he effortlessly carried in one hand. The two of them exited the joke shop, savouring the last remnants of their teas. By the time they reached Honeydukes, the cups had already been discreetly disposed of in the nearest bin.
“Have fun," he wished her warmly, courteously holding the door of the candy shop open for her to enter. (y/n) returned his friendly sentiment with a smile—precisely the sort of well-wishing one would expect before embarking on a shopping spree in a candy store.
Fred lingered in a quiet corner of the shop, surreptitiously observing as she gleefully navigated the aisles, carefully selecting her candies and placing them into a plastic basket a diligent store employee offered. She appeared far more animated here than he had ever seen her before—back in the library, she had come across as somewhat bored, and the same was true in their shared classes. While she undeniably held the status of a top student with excellent grades, Fred couldn't help but wonder why she seemed to lack the enthusiasm and focus he might have expected from someone of her academic calibre.
However, gathering her desired assortment of sweets took considerably longer than the five minutes Fred had initially anticipated. When he finally met up with her at the cashier, the man behind the counter handed over not one, not two, but three full bags of assorted candies and confections.
Fred couldn't help but jest, “Wow, someone's clearly outdone me."
“Mine's supposed to last longer," she retorted with a wry smile, determined to maintain her composure.
Fred's grin only broadened. "Will it, though?"
There was no malice behind his teasing; his natural inclination was to engage in playful banter, a habit he would have indulged with George, Ginny, or anyone else. If anything, he found himself enjoying the camaraderie that was forming between them, appreciating the quick-witted exchanges that characterised their interactions. And (y/n)'s response was predictable by now—a blend of half-anger and half-challenge that had come to define her expressions.
They left the candy store, their playful back-and-forth continuing as they walked, with Fred progressively leaning in closer with each exchange.
Fred's next question unintentionally left (y/n) feeling mortified as they approached the Three Broomsticks.
“Are you sure you don’t want a good, old butterbeer?” he asked. “It’s alright if you do. I won’t linger at your friends’ table; I’ll just drop you there and find Oliver Wood or someone else.” He said, using Oliver as an example, for he was the one name he remembered to have seen around the village.
It was weird, now that Fred had come to think of it, how he did not recall seeing one person from Hogwarts around Hogsmeade, even though he knew it was a crowded day there.
She had no friends to meet there or anywhere else. She cleared her throat, avoiding eye contact, “I don't have friends in there."
The proximity to the inn allowed them a clear view through the frosty windows, revealing the familiar faces of fellow students enjoying butterbeer.
“Why? Haven't they come to Hogsmeade?" Fred asked in surprise, momentarily distracted by the scene inside. “I swear that's Carmen Highland if my eyes aren't deceiving me," he remarked, gazing at the occupants within.
Lost in the sight of her former friends, Fred hadn't noticed that (y/n) was gradually distancing herself from him. She knew Carmen and recognised the other kids at her table — Andrea, Miniu, and Shenny. But they weren't friends anymore.
At least, not anymore.
“It is Carmen,” she reassured him, in case Fred would start considering he was indeed blind. “We’re just not friends, though.”
Fred finally snapped out of gazing through the cold glass window and returned his gaze to her.
“I distinctly remember all of you being quite lively at dinners and walking around classes," he said, furrowing his brows. “Unless Carmen has look-alikes I'm unaware of, I'm certain it's her. I've seen her during my Quidditch practices, competing for the pitch."
A smile tinged with embarrassment danced on (y/n)'s lips. She smiled not because she was pleased with the memories but because she was trying to conceal her inner gloom. “I used to walk with Carmen, and Miniu, and Andrea and Shenny. But that was way before.”
“No, I…”
“It was, Freddie,” she interrupted before he made her remember another memory. It was only because of her use of his nickname that he understood she wasn’t alright. “We were friends in the first year. Us and a bunch of other kids, so tight together because we were Slytherin, and we had to stick together because then we’d be victims of bullying from other houses.” Fred opened his mouth, but she continued, “Don’t deny it.”
Fred sighed and nodded.
“In our second year, the group started to shrink, and it ended up being just me and that table," she explained, her gaze distant, as if the memories were playing out before her eyes. "But I began to feel like I was there because I forced myself to be. I was being pushy. So when I stopped going, they didn't chase after me. That's when it became clear to me what our relationship was."
“What was it?" Fred inquired, genuinely perplexed, prompting (y/n) to wonder if he had ever experienced the abrupt end of a friendship.
“They weren't my friends," (y/n) stated matter-of-factly. “We didn't have a falling out or anything. I still greet them, and occasionally, we help each other with homework in the common room. But that's about it."
Fred pursed his lips thoughtfully, pondering the right words to respond with.
“Alright," he finally conceded. “I won't pry further," he said, his expression more serious now. “I can't quite fathom how a friendship could simply unravel like that, but it's clear it's not a cheerful matter. However, that doesn't mean you can't be with your other friends."
She rolled her eyes with exasperation and turned away from Fred and the entrance of the Three Broomsticks, her boots crunching softly in the freshly fallen snow.
“I don't have friends," she sighed, her breath visible in the crisp, wintry air. She could hear his footsteps, somehow always close behind.
Fred waited until he was walking right alongside her before he replied; his tone was soft and comforting. “You have me," he said, then hastily cleared his throat. “I mean, you have us. Me and George. I still owe you one from our library escapade."
“Consider it settled," she responded, her voice edged with a hint of exhaustion and her gaze averted. “You gave me a cup of tea, after all."
“That was just courtesy," Fred explained, his lips curving into a friendly smile, thinking their usual playful banter had resumed.
But (y/n) was weary, and it showed in her demeanour.
“Well, you're accompanying me back to the school," she tried again, her tone tinged with finality. “So consider that debt paid."
“Nah," he waved his free hand dismissively. “That's just me being a proper gentleman."
She rolled her eyes once more, a flicker of irritation crossing her features. “Fred..."
“We're friends, alright," he insisted, his tone gentle yet resolute, raising his voice slightly. “You have a friend... in me."
Without warning, (y/n) halted in her tracks, pivoting to face him fully, her expression a mixture of astonishment, incredulity, and a hint of amusement.
“Did you just quote a Muggle movie at me?" she asked, her voice showing disbelief.
“I’m sorry?”
“‘You have a friend in me’,” she repeated his words, this time adding a melody to her tone. “Did you quote the Toy Story song?”
“A toy story? Where is it?” he was genuinely confused, which led (y/n) to drop the subject since it was evident he had no idea what she was talking about.
“Never mind," she sighed, resuming her pace. “It's from a Muggle movie."
“And you've seen it?" Fred's stride matched hers again, his curiosity piqued.
“Unfortunately," she replied, her lips twisting in mild distaste. “I didn't quite enjoy it."
“Oh, why not?" Fred inquired with interest.
“It was... about friendship," she said, taking a moment to complete her sentence.
“I see," Fred mused, nodding thoughtfully as they walked towards the school, the snow beneath their feet offering a soft, comforting crunch with every step. “Perhaps I should watch it.”
“Yeah, why not,” she replied, not really wanting to participate in the conversation.
Fred knew when to shut up when he should, so they remained silent until the school entrance was visible.
“Uh, thank you,” (y/n) told him as they stopped in the middle of Hogwarts’ entrance corridor. It was a relatively empty hallway.
“See you around,” he nodded, and she bit her lip, turning her heels towards her House. “Friend,” Fred added a second later, only to see her turn her gaze over her shoulder.
“Bye, Weasley,” she said with a heavy breath out of resignation.
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