The noise is what draws Fred down first.

Not the shouting kind—no hexes going off, no raised voices—but the sharp, frantic rustle of fabric and Molly Weasley’s unmistakable tone of near-hysterical maternal concern. Fred pauses halfway down the stairs of Grimmauld Place, one hand on the banister, brow furrowing as he listens.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, Albus, she needs to sit down—look at her, she’s half-starved—Arthur, do something—where’s my wand—”

Fred exchanges a look with George from the landing above, both of them silently mouthing What now? before Fred continues down, boots creaking against the old steps. He expects chaos. He always does. Maybe another Order argument, maybe Moody barking about security, maybe Kreacher knocking something over again.

What he doesn’t expect is the way his chest stops the moment he reaches the bottom.

The kitchen is full—Arthur hovering uselessly near the table, Tonks standing off to the side with her hands twisted together, Remus leaning heavily against the counter, eyes glassy. Dumbledore stands at the head of the room, calm and infuriatingly serene as ever.

And in the middle of it all—

You.

For a heartbeat, Fred’s brain refuses to cooperate. You’re thinner than he remembers, shadows carved beneath your eyes, hair dull and uneven like it’s been hacked short in places. There are faint marks along your wrists, half-hidden by the sleeves of an oversized jumper Molly has clearly forced onto you. You look real and unreal all at once, like something he’s dreamed himself half-mad with over the past year.

You were taken.

A year ago. Dragged into the dark by Death Eaters, vanished so completely that even hope had started to feel dangerous. They’d searched. They’d fought. They’d mourned in quiet, broken ways. Fred had learned how to breathe around the ache, how to laugh without really laughing, how to sleep without expecting to feel your hand in his.

And now—

“Freddie?”

Your voice is softer than he remembers, but it’s yours. Still you.

The room seems to tilt.

He doesn’t realize he’s moved until he’s standing in front of you, hands trembling at his sides, afraid to touch you in case you disappear. His mouth opens, shuts, opens again.

“You’re—” His voice cracks, sharp and ugly. He clears his throat, tries again, forcing a crooked smile that doesn’t quite hold. “Blimey. I knew Mum’s cooking was good, but I didn’t think it could raise the dead.”

Molly swats his arm with a dishrag through tears. “Frederick!”

But Fred’s eyes never leave you. They’re shining now, red-rimmed, panic and relief crashing together so hard it hurts. He lifts a hand, hesitates—then cups your cheek like it’s something precious, something fragile.

“You’re here,” he breathes, disbelief bleeding into wonder. “You’re actually here.”

Dumbledore’s voice cuts in gently. “Thanks to Professor Snape… and Mr. Malfoy, of all people.”

Fred barely hears it.

All he knows is that after a year of nightmares and unanswered prayers, you’re standing in front of him at Grimmauld Place—alive, breathing, real.

And he is never letting you out of his sight again.