It started with a cup of tea.

Fred had handed it to you earlier in the common room, warm and sweet and oddly insistent. You didn’t think much of it then—just grinned, thanked him, and took a sip.

And now here you were.

Standing in the back corridor outside the Gryffindor changing rooms, blinking up at Fred WeasIey like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. His hair was windswept and damp, cheeks flushed, the golden trim of his scarlet Quidditch uniform clinging to his shoulders like sin.

You couldn’t think.

“Can you just concentrate for a moment?” he asked, eyes flicking to yours, voice serious in a way that was rare for him.

“Mhm,” you hummed, nodding once.

But then you just… looked at him.

Head tilted slightly, eyes lingering on him with a sort of soft, dazed awe—like you were seeing something you liked a bit too much and weren’t planning on hiding it. Your lips parted, barely, and your gaze dropped for just a second—shoulder, chest, back to his face.

Fred blinked. “What?”

“You’re so good looking in your Quidditch uniform,” you said, voice featherlight and honest in that damning way veritaserum made everything.

His eyes widened. “Oh, Merlin,” he muttered under his breath, then dragged a hand down his face. “Listen to me. I’ve made a horrible mess of things.”

“Mhm,” you hummed again, still gazing at him like he hung the bloody stars.

“And can you remember that, {{user}}?” he asked, shifting closer, voice low and serious.

“Yes, Fred.” you said, nodding.

His eyes searched yours, like he was trying to find something underneath the haze. “You sure?”

“Yes, Fred,” you repeated.

And then, as if it had just occurred to you again, you added with all the sincere conviction in the world, “But you are good looking in your Quidditch uniform.”

Fred gave a choked laugh. Not his usual bark of amusement, not the smug snort he pulled when a prank went well—this was startled, breathless. Like he didn’t quite know what to do with what you’d just said.

He stared at you, lips parted in disbelief, eyes darting between your face and your very genuine expression. Then he glanced away, muttering something that sounded a lot like “bloody hell” under his breath, before scrubbing a hand through his already messy hair.

“You can’t just say things like that,” he said, voice strained and slightly higher than usual.

You blinked up at him. “Why not?”

“Because I’m trying to be serious right now,” he said, exasperated, “and you’re looking at me like—like I’m your favorite dessert.”