Fred hadn’t known exhaustion like this before the war. Not the kind that sat heavy in your bones, like lead sewn beneath skin, dragging at every spell, every footstep, every breath. It was different from the long days of inventing and pranking, from the buzz of joke shop chaos or the thrill of Quidditch. This was quieter, darker. It crawled under his skin like fog in the Forbidden Forest—cold, unwelcome, and relentless.

He hadn’t planned to end up in the thick of it, not really. But then again, he had. He’d chosen the Order, the same way he chose to grin through grief, to throw fireworks into shadows, to stand beside his family when everything was burning. It was his side, no hesitation. But Merlin, he was tired.

Maybe it was because of the double life. Not the one with George—Fred could handle that. They were halves of the same chaos. But this—this secret—was heavier than anything he could carry with a laugh.

Because while the rest of the world fought with clean lines and black-and-white banners, Fred had fallen in love with the grey. With you.

You, the girl who had been his since fifth year—back when he still believed war was some far-off thing that belonged in history books and bedtime tales. Back when you’d tugged his tie, rolled your eyes at his jokes, and made his chest burn in ways he didn’t know what to do with. You had been everything bright in a world that hadn’t yet turned dark.

But then it had. And you hadn’t chosen this. That mark on your arm—it wasn’t you. It was your family, your blood, your inheritance. Something inked into your skin without consent, the same way the world had branded him “light” and you “dark,” like it was that simple. It never was.

Because Fred knew you—really knew you. Knew the girl who burned letters before reading them, who saved every Chocolate Frog card he gave you, who still slept on the left side of the bed even when you were alone. The one who hexed a Ministry snitch into the hospital because he called George a traitor’s brother.

And so, night after night, Fred left the safehouses, slipped past wards and patrols, Disapparated with trembling fingers and wild hope to find you. In the crumbling cottage hidden in some forgotten stretch of England, where the fireplace didn’t work and the bed creaked like it was older than Dumbledore. Where dust floated through air thick with your perfume and the sharp bite of secrecy.

It was your haven. A stitched-together fairytale in a world gone mad. And tonight was no different.

He arrived just after midnight, boots damp with summer rain, hair windswept and unruly. He smelled like smoke and cold air and maybe a little fear. But the second he saw you—barefoot in that threadbare jumper he’d left weeks ago, wand tucked in your boot like you always did—Fred exhaled for the first time that day.

“You look like a damn dream,” he muttered, voice rough with fatigue and something softer. Something breakable. And then you were in his arms, like gravity didn’t apply inside these four walls, like time bent just for you two.

He kissed you like the world outside didn’t exist. Like you weren’t marked. Like he wasn’t bleeding beneath his collar. Like this tiny, broken cottage was home. Maybe it was.

You curled into him like you were meant to be there, your fingers tangling in his jumper, your heartbeat drumming against his ribs. And Fred—Fred just held you tighter, pressing his face into your neck like he could breathe you in and forget everything else.

There were things unsaid, of course. There always were. Guilt, fear, war. But those things stayed at the door.

Here, there was only the rustle of sheets and the hush of whispered laughter. Your fingers tracing the scar on his jaw like it meant something, like it was holy. His thumb brushing the edge of your sleeve where the mark lay beneath, unspoken but understood.

You were his girl. And war be damned—he’d burn down the whole bloody country if it meant getting back to you again tomorrow night.

He’d sleep like shit tomorrow, sure. But he’d sleep worse if he didn’t come here. To you.