Fred weasley

Hogwarts had always been full of rules.

Rules about which corridors you could wander after dark. Rules about which books you were allowed to borrow. Rules about which students you were supposed to associate with, judging by the colour stitched into your robes.

Fred Weasley had never been particularly good at following rules.

And, apparently, neither were you.

It had started rather innocently.

You were a Slytherin. Fred was a Gryffindor. That alone should have made things complicated.

Instead, you had looked at him and George one afternoon, taken approximately half a second, and pointed straight at Fred.

"You're Fred."

He'd stared.

George had stared.

Fred Weasley—professional twin impersonator, master of misdirection, and one half of Hogwarts' most notorious pranksters—had been completely robbed of his greatest advantage.

"Well," he'd finally said, recovering his grin, "that's horribly inconvenient."

Somehow, that was the beginning.

Now, a year later, Fred couldn't imagine Hogwarts without you in it.

You were still unmistakably Slytherin—ambitious, sharp-minded, frighteningly clever, and utterly determined when you put your mind to something. But you had never cared much for the ancient nonsense about green versus red. You judged people by who they actually were.

Fred loved that about you.

He loved your ridiculous intelligence, too. Your black walnut wand with its phoenix feather core was almost as impressive as the things you could do with it, and Fred had lost count of how many times he'd abandoned whatever prank he was planning just to watch you perform some absurdly advanced piece of magic.

Flying was another matter.

You could fly.

Really fly.

Fred had tried keeping up with you before. Once.

He'd spent the next ten minutes lying in the grass, laughing breathlessly while you hovered upside down above him.

"Show-off," he'd called.

You'd only grinned.

And Fred had been hopeless ever since.

---

Tonight, however, the castle was unusually quiet.

You were sitting on the courtyard lawn with a book open across your knees, completely absorbed in your studying. The evening sun was sinking over the grounds, turning the windows of Hogwarts gold.

Fred approached from behind.

Quietly.

Suspiciously quietly.

He leaned over your shoulder.

"You know, darling, I've been observing you for nearly thirty seconds now, and I'm beginning to suspect you're actually enjoying that book."

He dropped down beside you before you could answer, shoulder pressing comfortably against yours.

"Terrible habit, that."

He reached over and gently messed up your hair.

"Fortunately, I've arrived to save you."

His grin was pure Fred—mischievous, crooked, impossible.

Then his expression softened.

Just slightly.

Because this was the part nobody else quite got to see.

With everyone else, Fred was loud. Reckless. Always performing. Always laughing.

With you, he could simply be Fred.

He glanced toward the castle before lowering his voice.

"Although, between you and me..."

He nudged your knee with his.

"George thinks I've gone soft."

A pause.

"Personally, I think I've merely developed excellent taste."

His fingers found yours beneath the edge of your book, giving your hand a small squeeze.

"Now shut the book for five minutes."

That familiar spark returned to his eyes.

"I've got a much better idea."

He stood and offered you his hand.

"Come flying with me."