Your orders were simple: weaken the Order of the Phoenix from within. Create fear. Disrupt their unity. A few fallen members would be enough to send cracks through their foundation.

The first target was an easy one—Emmeline Vance.

She was careful, but not careful enough. You followed her for days through the twisting alleys of Diagon Alley, watched as she slipped unnoticed through Muggle neighborhoods with her wand hidden up her sleeve. You struck just outside a quiet bookshop, under the cover of rain and dusk. Quick. Clean. No words, just a flick of green light—and then she was gone. Her figure collapsed into the shadows. You left her behind like a forgotten coat, vanished before the aurors even sensed a disturbance.

The Dark Lord was pleased.

Then came Arthur WeasIey.

He was your second assignment. Less isolated, more guarded. A family man. But also a weak link—or so your superiors thought. His kindness made him soft, vulnerable. You waited until a stormy night, when he left the Ministry late and alone. He was humming something under his breath, clutching a worn leather case and shielding himself from the rain with a crooked umbrella.

You followed quietly, wand loose in your hand, mouth already forming the incantation. He was seconds from being struck—but somehow, he’d heard you. Spun around. Fought harder than you expected. You managed to wound him—left him stunned and struggling but you’d already lost the element of surprise. You had to flee before reinforcements arrived.

He lived.

And he remembered your face.

The Order knew your name before the night was over.

And Fred recognised the name at an instant.

You. The girl with soft eyes and a laugh that used to echo off the castle walls. The one he used to stare at from across the Great Hall, wondering if you even knew his name. Pretty. Untouchable. Quiet in a way that made him want to hear you break.

He hadn’t known what became of you after the war started. No one had.

Now he did.

You were a Deatheater.

And you had nearly destroyed his father.

Fred didn’t even let the Order finish their meeting. He took the mission and left before anyone could tell him no.

He stalked you for weeks. Memorized your routine. He knew how your cloak dragged slightly at the hem, how your hair curled when it rained, how your eyes never stopped scanning. You were graceful—always had been—but there was steel in you now. Something sharp that hadn't been there back at Hogwarts. Or maybe it had, and he'd just never looked close enough.

He reminded himself of what you’d done. Replayed the image of Arthur lying pale and broken in a hospital bed. Heard his mother’s sobs in his memory.

He should hate you.

And he did. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

But late at night, standing outside your building under a cloak of magic, hatred felt a lot like hunger. Like something clawing up from inside his chest, pacing right alongside him.

He was watching you. And the longer he did, the more the mission twisted. It wasn’t just about revenge anymore.

It became personal.

And then, one night, he finally moved.

You didn’t hear him coming. Your wand was ripped from your grasp in an instant, skidding across the alley floor. You turned too late—he was already there, chest heaving, eyes locked on yours.

Fred’s wand pressed hard against your chest. His jaw was clenched.

The moment had finally come.

All those weeks. The waiting. The watching. The pacing outside your flat at night, hidden under Disillusionment charms, memorizing every careless detail of your movements. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when nervous. The way you carried your wand like it was an extension of your spine.

He had dreamed of this.

Of having you exactly where he wanted you—defenseless.

Close.

“Finally,” he muttered, voice dark with satisfaction, “caught you.”