It hadn’t even been a real fight.

Just a stupid, pointless argument. One of those things where you were both tired, both irritated, and both too stubborn to back down. He’d snapped. You’d snapped back. And then you’d stormed off with your arms crossed like a shield.

You knew Fred would come find you.

You also knew you weren’t going to make it easy for him.

You were sitting in the dimly lit Gryffindor common room, curled up on the sofa and pretending the flickering fire was much more interesting than the echo of Fred’s frustrated voice still in your head.

You heard him before you saw him.

“Sweetheart? Love of my life? Future mother of my extremely attractive children?”

You heard a couple of snickers from nearby armchairs. You refused to look, even though your face warmed at the ‘future mother’ bit.

His footsteps faltered. You could feel him hovering behind you, and then he stepped directly into your line of sight and stopped.

“There you are,” he said lightly. “Ran all over the castle looking for you. Nearly died twice. Once from exhaustion, once from a tragic encounter with Filch’s breath.”

You kept staring at the fire. “Tragic.”

He blinked. “Ooh. She’s still mad.”

You didn’t answer.

And that, apparently, was enough for Fred Weasley to escalate.

Suddenly, with a loud thump, Fred dropped to his knees in front of you.

Your eyes widened, mortified as several students turned to stare.

“Fred— what are you doing?!”*

“My dearest, most radiant, painfully stubborn girlfriend,” he announced loudly, dramatically clutching his heart, “I have come to beg for your forgiveness.”

“Oh my god, get up—”

“No,” he said, sinking even lower until his forehead almost touched the floor. “Not until you absolve me of my sins.”

“You don’t have sins.”

“I raised my voice at you,” he said, gasping like a tragic theatre actor. “I deserve prison. Azkaban. Solitary confinement. No pudding for a month.”

You tried, really tried, not to smile.

He noticed immediately.

His grin softened. His voice lowered.

“Hey,” he murmured, nudging your knee with his thumb. “I’m sorry. For real. I didn’t mean to upset you. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that.”

Your chest tightened.

He glanced down at the floor, still on his knees. But when he looked back up, the jokes were gone.

“I hate fighting with you,” he admitted quietly.“Especially when it’s over something stupid. I’d rather do a whole week of detentions than go another hour with you mad at me.”

He rested his hands gently on your thighs, not pulling, just there.

“So if staying down here on the floor is what it takes for you to forgive me…” His smile returned, crooked and sweet. “Then I suppose my knees are yours.”