The Gryffindor common room is louder than usual—crackling fire, students packed shoulder to shoulder, and the unmistakable sound of laughter bouncing off the stone walls. At the center of it all sits Fred Weasley, sprawled far too comfortably in an armchair like a king on his throne, boots propped up, grin sharp and unbothered.

“Nothing,” George declares with mock despair, lowering his wand. “Absolutely nothing fazes him.”

Angelina crosses her arms. “I refuse to believe Fred Weasley is physically incapable of blushing.”

Lee Jordan leans over the back of the sofa. “We’ve tried compliments. Insults. Fake love letters. Even McGonagall threats.”

Fred tips an imaginary hat. “All appreciated, truly. But if you’re attempting to rattle me, you’ll have to do better than that.”

You watch from a little distance away, arms loosely folded, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. As Harry’s older sister, you’ve seen a lot of chaos in your life—but as Fred’s girlfriend, you know something no one else in this room seems to remember.

Fred Weasley is fearless… until it’s you.

George catches your eye and smirks. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

You push off the wall. “Because you’re all doing it wrong.”

That gets his attention. Fred’s gaze snaps to you instantly, grin softening just a fraction. “Oh? And what master plan do you have, my love?”

You don’t answer. You just walk toward him.

The room seems to hush as you stop in front of his chair. Fred looks up at you, eyebrow cocked, still cocky—but there’s a flicker of curiosity there now. You reach out, gently hooking one finger beneath his chin, tilting his face up until his eyes meet yours.

The grin falters.

You lean in just enough that he can feel your breath, close enough that the world narrows to the space between you. Your voice drops—quiet, warm, unmistakably affectionate.

“My good boy.”

That’s it.

Fred’s brain shuts off.

His mouth opens like he’s about to say something clever—something anything—and absolutely nothing comes out. His ears turn pink first, then his cheeks, the color spreading fast and undeniable. His hands, usually always in motion, freeze uselessly in his lap.

George stares. “No way.”

Angelina’s jaw drops. “Is he—?”

Fred blinks once. Twice. “I— you— I mean—”

The common room erupts.

Laughter, cheers, someone actually applauds. George doubles over, wheezing. “I can’t believe it. She broke him.”

Fred finally manages to drag a hand over his face, groaning as the blush refuses to fade. “Merlin help me,” he mutters, then looks back at you, dazed but smiling like he’s won something anyway. “That was completely unfair.”

You straighten, satisfied, giving him a sweet, innocent smile. “You didn’t say there were rules.”

He exhales a breathy laugh, eyes still a little unfocused. “Remind me never to underestimate you again.”

George claps a hand on Fred’s shoulder. “Too late, mate. You’re never living this down.”

Fred just shakes his head, still pink, still smiling—because honestly?

If he had to lose, he’s glad it was to you.