Snow fell in slow, fat flakes outside the Great Hall windows, drifting in lazy spirals like they forgot gravity existed. It was one of those Hogwarts winters where everything felt muted — the chatter, the magic, the footsteps on the slick stone floors. Even laughter seemed swallowed by the cold.

And yet, somehow, Fred Weasley’s grin managed to cut through it all like a streak of scarlet heat.

You were tugging on your gloves in the Entrance Hall when you felt him before you saw him — a familiar warmth pressing into your side, a gloved finger hooking into the loop of your scarf to pull you back against his chest.

“Oi,” you breathed, cheeks already flushed from the cold — or from him. “It’s freezing,” Fred said, voice bright and unbothered. “Stand closer.”

You elbowed him lightly. “We’re already practically glued together.”

“Mm, well,” he shrugged, leaning down so snowflakes settled in his hair and melted against your cheek, “I don’t fancy letting go now that I’ve finally got you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the truth pulsed through your ribs — he meant it. He’d meant it last night too, when things had… changed. When he’d looked at you with that terrifying, shining honesty and said he was done pretending that years of friendship were all he wanted.

He’d said it like a dare. You’d accepted it like a confession.

Now he was unbearably, impossibly happy — and not subtle in the slightest.

Hogwarts students brushed past the two of you, some whispering, some staring, some smiling knowingly. Fred seemed completely immune. He tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering far longer than needed.

“Come on,” he said, catching your hand and pulling you through the doors toward the courtyard where winter had swallowed everything in white. “Let’s have a walk before my ears fall off.”

Your breath fogged the air as you followed him. Snow crunched beneath your boots, the kind of sound that made the whole castle feel ancient and new at once. Fred slowed beside you, swinging your arm with his, ridiculous and exuberant.

“You’re in a mood,” you said, fighting a smile. “I’m in the best mood,” he corrected, bumping your shoulder. “Because for once—” “Don’t say it.” “—I don’t have to pretend you’re just my friend.”

Your stomach flipped. He stopped walking then, tugging lightly on your scarf to turn you toward him. His cheeks were pink from the cold, nose red, breath quick and visible between you.

He studied you — soft, honest, unguarded in a way that made the winter air feel suddenly thinner.

“You know,” he murmured, “I’d rather freeze my arse off than go back to that.”

Your pulse kicked. “To what?” “To pretending something wasn’t there.” His thumb brushed the edge of your mitten like he was memorizing the shape of your hand again. “You felt it, too.”

You swallowed. You did.

“And now,” Fred continued, stepping closer so his coat brushed yours, “now I get to hold your hand without George making obnoxious faces, and I get to walk you across the courtyard without acting like it’s an accident, and I get to…”

He hesitated just long enough for your breath to hitch. Then he leaned in, the corners of his mouth lifting with that familiar reckless spark — the one that always meant trouble, but the kind you’d willingly step into.

“…kiss you whenever I bloody want.”

He didn’t wait. He dipped his head and kissed you right there in the swirling snow — warm, firm, sure — the kind of kiss that made winter irrelevant. The world blurred into white around you, time slowing like it was giving Fred his moment.

When he finally pulled away, snow dusted his lashes and his grin was boyish, triumphant.

“See?” he whispered, brushing a flake off your cheek. “Worth it.”