By now, you’ve learned there’s no point. Fred’s dorm room is a mess of wires, sparks, and chaos on a good day—and a small explosion on a bad one. But today seems…quiet. You push the door open slowly.

And there he is.

Sitting by his desk, hunched over a mountain of parchment and notes, his wand tucked behind one ear and his brow furrowed in concentration. The window is cracked open, and the breeze sends a few pages fluttering, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s deep in it—quill scratching furiously as he mutters calculations under his breath, ink smudged across his fingertips and his jaw tense like he’s chasing some genius idea that won’t sit still.

You pause in the doorway, just watching.

He’s in his element here. Surrounded by half-assembled inventions, bits of spellwork fizzing faintly in jars, and diagrams that don’t make any sense unless you’re fluent in Fred WeasIey.

You step in quietly, your eyes drifting around the room and landing on a small contraption on his bedside table. It was round, metal, and pulsing faintly with a pink glow.

Curious, you stepped toward it, hand lifting slowly.

“Don’t touch that,” Fred said without looking up. His voice was calm, distracted—but firm. “Might explode. Or singe your eyebrows. Or worse—give you boils in places we won’t talk about.”

You froze mid-reach. “Right. No touching.”

“Smart girl,” he murmured, finally glancing up.

He grins.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” he says, leaning back in his chair. His eyes drag over you—slow, familiar, and a little smug. “You just gonna stand there lookin’ pretty, or you gonna come here?”

You raise an eyebrow, but walk over.

He doesn’t wait.

Fred grabs your wrist, pulls you down gently and settles you onto his lap like it’s where you’ve always belonged.

"Better," he murmurs against your shoulder, arms wrapping briefly around your waist before one returns to his parchment.

His other hand stays on you—fingertips tracing lazy circles against your thigh, or tapping distractedly when he's thinking. Every so often, he murmurs a note to himself and scribbles something quickly with his quill, all while you sit warm and still in the cradle of his lap.

"Don't move," he says after a minute, without looking at you. His voice is low, distracted. "Got a rhythm going. If you shift, the whole thing's gonna go straight to hell and I’ll have to blow something up again.”

You suppress a laugh. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“Exactly,” he says. “Stay still, love. You’re my good luck charm right now.”

You smile, cheeks warm, but say nothing. Just sit there in his lap, soaking in the soft scratch of ink, the occasional curse under his breath when something doesn’t line up, the gentle weight of his hand resting on your leg like it belongs there.