You weren’t really watching practice.

Fred had begged you to come — “Moral support,” he’d said, flashing that stupidly charming grin — and you’d caved, settling into the stands with a book and a promise that you were definitely paying attention.

You weren’t. Not really.

Your eyes flicked up every now and then, catching flashes of red robes streaking across the pitch, the thud of Bludgers, the occasional barked order from Angelina. But mostly, your focus stayed on the page in your lap, words blurring just enough to make you reread the same sentence twice.

Then you heard someone yell.

“WeasIey’s down!”

Your head snapped up.

A few people had stopped flying. A ripple of alarm ran through the team. And there, sprawled in the middle of the pitch, was Fred — motionless on the grass, broom and his bat tossed a few feet away.

Your heart dropped.

The book hit the bench as you jumped up, nearly tripping over your own feet on the way down. You didn’t think. You just ran.

“Fred!” you called out, breath catching as you dropped to your knees beside him.

He was lying on his back, eyes closed, arm dramatically over his chest.

“Oh my god—what happened? Are you okay? Where does it hurt?” Your hands hovered, unsure where to touch without making it worse.

Then he cracked one eye open.

And grinned.

“Hey,” he said casually. “You came.”

You stared. “Are you—”

“Dying? Tragically injured? In need of mouth-to-mouth?” He sat up easily, propping himself on his elbows. “Nah. Just wanted to see if you’d run.”

You blinked. “You’re fine?”

“Better than fine. Look at you — all worried. Almost sweet, really.”

Your mouth fell open. “You faked it?”

He gave you a slow, utterly infuriating smile. “Knew you cared.”

You shoved his shoulder — not too hard, but hard enough to knock him back into the grass with a laugh. “You absolute git.”

“You’re cute when you panic.”

“Fred—”

“And very fast on your feet, by the way,” he said, clearly enjoying himself. “Didn’t know you’d run like that for me”