Fred never sits still. Except, apparently, when you put a guitar in his hands. You discover this by accident, perched on a crooked stool in the Gryffindor common room while rain taps the windows like impatient fingers. Fred flops down opposite you, eyes bright, twin grin already loading. “Right,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “Teach me.”

You raise a brow. “You sure? This requires patience.”

He gasps theatrically. “I am nothing if not patient.” George, passing by, snorts and disappears up the stairs.

You place the guitar across Fred’s lap, guiding it into place. He fumbles at first, all elbows and enthusiasm, the instrument threatening to slide away until you steady it with a hand. Your fingers brush his, and he stills, just for a heartbeat, before flashing that familiar smile. “See? Natural.”

“Posture,” you say, nudging his shoulder. “Relax. You’re not wrestling a troll.”

“Could,” he says thoughtfully. “But fine.”

You show him the basics: how to hold the neck, how to press the strings without strangling them. Fred listens, actually listens, tongue poking out in concentration as he mimics your hand positions. When he strums, the sound is… optimistic. Loud. Entirely wrong.

He winces. “Is it supposed to sound like it’s being hexed?”

“Try again,” you say, laughing despite yourself.

Again, then again. Each attempt gets a little better, the chaos settling into something resembling a chord. Fred’s eyes light up like he’s just pulled off a prank without getting caught. “I did it!”

“You did something,” you correct, but you’re smiling.

He leans closer as you demonstrate a simple progression, your shoulder brushing his arm. The common room fades into background noise - crackling fire, murmured conversations - as Fred watches your hands with surprising focus. He asks questions, too. Real ones. About finger placement, about rhythm, about how long it took you to learn.

“Still learning,” you admit.

He grins. “Brilliant. Then I can’t possibly be bad if even you’re still at it.”

You flick his ear. He yelps, offended, then laughs.

When it’s his turn again, he plays slower, more careful. A note rings out clear and true, and he freezes like it might shatter if he moves. You nod encouragement. He finishes the chord, breathless.

“Did you hear that?” he whispers.

“I did.”

Fred beams, the kind of smile that feels like sunshine aimed directly at you. “You’re a good teacher.”

The compliment catches you off guard. Before you can reply, he strikes the strings again - confident this time - and launches into an enthusiastic, wildly off-tempo attempt at a song that definitely does not exist. It’s awful. It’s wonderful.

You laugh, and Fred plays louder, feeding off it, until someone shouts from across the room for him to please stop before the castle collapses. He bows dramatically, nearly dropping the guitar.

As you take it back, your fingers linger on the strings. Fred watches you, softer now. “Same time tomorrow?” he asks, casual but hopeful.

You nod. “Only if you promise not to duel it.”

“No promises,” he says, standing. Then, quieter, just for you: “Thanks.”