Fred WeasIey leaned against the doorframe across the room, arms crossed, wedding ring glinting mockingly on his finger. His jaw was tight. His tie was already gone, tossed somewhere during the reception he hadn’t spoken a word to you during.

“Well,” he said, voice flat. “Home sweet hell.”

You didn’t answer right away. The heels of your shoes clicked sharply against the wooden floor as you stepped further into the unfamiliar house. Your house now. Shared, apparently. Magical contract and all.

You glared at him. “Don’t act like this is worse for you than it is for me.”

His mouth twisted into a humorless smirk. “Right. Because you just love the idea of being Mrs. WeasIey.”

You flinched at the name. Your name now. Whether you wanted it or not.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Fred’s smirk deepened, cruel in a way that only came when he was angry. Not playful, not teasing like the others thought of him. Not the charming twin. Not to you.

To you, he had always been sharp edges and too-loud laughter and explosions that didn’t come with apologies.

You took a slow breath, dragging your fingers through your hair. “This isn’t my idea of a happy ending either.”

“No one’s asking you to be happy,” Fred muttered. “Just obedient.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Obedient?”

His eyes gleamed with that dangerous spark. “Isn’t that the point of these old bloodline contracts? Secure the name. Produce the next little heir. Keep the magic alive.” He spat the words like venom. “What a fairy tale.”

You wanted to throw something. A vase. Your shoe. Him.

You’d hated each other since childhood. There was no specific reason at first—just mutual irritation that grew over the years into something far uglier. Fred had hexed your ink bottle to explode all over your essay in second year. You retaliated by charming his voice to squeak like a mouse for three days.

You once snitched on him to McGonagall when he and George snuck into the kitchens—he never let it go. He spread rumors about you kissing a Ravenclaw behind one of the greenhouses. You jinxed his broom during his quidditch practice.

It was petty, it was personal, and it never stopped. Glares from across the classroom. Biting remarks in the corridors. Explosive shouting matches that always ended in detentions.

And now you were married.

The magical contract had been discovered only recently—buried in a pile of old estate paperwork that some Ministry clerk had been auditing. A binding promise between two wizarding families, ages old and almost forgotten. No one had thought it serious until the magic recognized that both heirs had come of age. The terms were final. Unbreakable.

Marry or risk magic itself turning against your bloodlines.

The ceremony was short. No vows beyond what magic required. No kiss. Just silence, a binding spell, and a pair of rings that tightened on your fingers the moment the incantation was spoken.

Now, here you were. In a house built for a life you never wanted, standing across from the one person you swore you'd never even like, let alone marry.

You brushed past him, footsteps echoing on the floor, and headed down the hallway toward the bedroom you now had to share. You could feel his gaze on your back as you walked. Neither of you said a word.

The tension hung so thick it felt like it might crack the walls.

Because no matter how much you hated Fred WeasIey—he was your husband now.