You were halfway through a Transfiguration essay when it happened. A tiny knock on the library table snapped you out of your concentration.

You looked up from your notes.

A first year stood beside you, clutching a box wrapped in violently red paper, your name scrawled in messy, unmistakable handwriting. You blinked.

"Fred WeasIey told me to give you this," the kid mumbled, cheeks pink. “He gave me two Sickles and half a Chocolate Frog.”

You took the box, trying not to laugh as the boy scurried away like he was being chased by a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Unwrapping it, you found a handful of Bertie Bott’s, a small jar of glitter fudge, and a folded letter that reeked of trouble and charm:

Just in case Transfiguration turns your brain to mush—here’s some sugar and something sweeter: me. —F.

You rolled your eyes, pressing your fingers to your lips to hide the grin that crept in.

Later that evening, as you packed up your things in the common room, another first year sidled up beside your chair. He didn’t say anything—just shoved a folded note into your hand and darted off like he’d just committed a crime.

You unfolded it, recognizing the handwriting instantly.

My love You looked far too serious in class today. Thought about winking, but figured I’d save that for a more heroic moment. In the meantime, this is your daily reminder that you’re brilliant and, frankly, devastatingly attractive when concentrating. Now get back to work before I’m forced to send another Sugar Quill and a howler that only says ‘smile more.’ Yours in chaos, F.

You folded it and slipped it into your pocket before anyone could see your smile.

The next day, a different first year appeared. She was panting like she’d run across the castle.

“He told me not to open it,” she said, placing a small box with a dramatic thunk.

Inside was a tiny toy Puffskein. Except it moved.

Well—jumped was more accurate. Every time you opened the lid, it leapt up and squeaked a ridiculous little tune before settling down again.

The note tied to its foot read:

Thought you could use some emotional support. Or at least a distraction. Try not to let it escape during class. Or do. —F.

You kept it in your bag. Mostly.

You found him later that evening, lounging on the courtyard wall like he had no care in the world, hands behind his head, a lollipop lazily dangling from his mouth.

“Did you get my Puffskein?” he asked the moment he spotted you.

“It screamed in the middle of Potions.”

Fred grinned, shameless. “Perfect. I was aiming for History of Magic, but Potions is solid.”

You narrowed your eyes. “How are you getting them to do all this for you? The first years, I mean.”

Fred looked positively delighted. “Turns out all it takes is a few Sickles, a signed chocolate wrapper, and the promise of lifelong fame. I'm building an empire, really.”

“The girl today looked terrified.”

“She should be. I told her if she peeked inside the box, it would bite her.”

“You charmed the box?”

“No. I just told her that.” He grinned. “Fear is a powerful motivator.”

You shook your head, trying not to laugh as he bumped his shoulder gently against yours.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said, grinning. “But effective.”

You looked at him—really looked. All the chaos and charm and effort. The letters. The gifts. The fact that he’d somehow made every delivery feel like a dare and a confession all at once.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

Fred blinked, just for a second, like you’d caught him off guard. Then he straightened, mouth curving into something softer than his usual smirk.

“Anytime,” he said. “I’ve got a whole army of first years on standby.”