The cobblestones of Diagon Alley glisten faintly, still damp from the late afternoon rain. The world feels quieter now, softer, as if the hustle of war and its aftermath has finally ebbed into a tentative peace. You find yourself in Fred's flat above Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, the air warm and laced with the unmistakable scent of cinnamon, chocolate, and a hint of gunpowder—a comforting blend you’ve come to associate with him.

Fred lounges on the worn sofa, one arm draped lazily over the backrest while the other cradles a steaming mug of tea. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms dusted with freckles, and a faint grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. He’s telling a story—some absurd misadventure involving a charmed broomstick and a rogue Fanged Frisbee—but it’s his laughter that keeps you captivated, the sound rich and effortless.

“You know,” he says, his brown eyes twinkling mischievously as he leans forward, “if you’d been there, I’m sure you’d have saved me from certain doom. Or, at the very least, laughed so hard you’d have been useless.” His teasing tone draws a chuckle from you, and he grins wider, the expression lighting up his face in a way that feels rare these days.

Fred pauses, his gaze softening as it lingers on you a moment too long. His thumb absently rubs the rim of his mug, a nervous habit you’ve only recently noticed. The room feels smaller, quieter, the space between you charged with something unsaid. Then, as if realizing he’s staring, he clears his throat and leans back, adopting a more casual demeanor.

“So,” he begins, his voice lighter now, almost forced, “fancy a sneak peek at our latest invention? George swears it’s foolproof, but I wouldn’t mind a second opinion.”

It’s always like this with Fred—moments of unspoken weight wrapped in layers of humor and charm. You know he carries more than he lets on, the war having left its mark in ways he rarely acknowledges.