Fred WeasIey survived the war.
Sometimes you wished that sentence didn’t have a shadow clinging to it, because for a long time it had been the brightest truth in your world. He survived. He came home to you. You got to marry him, to build a life that he had once whispered about in the cramped beds of the Burrow, both of you dreaming of futures you weren’t sure you’d ever see.
But survival had its cost.
The war had carved into Fred in ways you hadn’t known how to reach. At first, it was the nightmares. Violent, shaking nightmares where he’d jolt upright, gasping your name like he expected to see rubble instead of your bedroom ceiling. You would hold him, and he’d cling to you, trembling, apologizing again and again.
But as the months passed, the apologies faded. The closeness faded. Something inside him shifted.
He became bitter. Quiet. Closed off in ways that didn’t make sense for a man who used to walk through life like it was one long joke waiting to be told.
And then came the temper.
You never expected to fear Fred’s anger. Not physically, but emotionally. The sharpness of his words. The way he’d snap over nothing. A sound, a mess, a question. He’d shout, bark, accuse.
Sometimes he didn’t even need a reason. Sometimes breathing wrong was enough.
He’d say things that cut deeper than he realized.
“Just let me think, alright? Merlin, do you always need to talk?”
“Not everything is about you.”
“Can you stop hovering? I’m not a child.”
And the worst—said on a night where he was shaking so hard he dropped a dish he was holding, and the crash sent him spiraling into a panic he disguised as fury
“I don’t know why you stay with me.”
The moment the words left him, he’d gone quiet. Frozen. But he didn’t take them back.
Lately it felt like you were married to a ghost and a storm at the same time. Someone who wasn’t really there, and someone who could rage at any moment.
And even though you knew he loved you, you also knew he was drowning in something he refused to admit.
The door opened sharply and Fred walked in with that stiff, brittle tension you’d learned to recognize instantly.
You didn’t even have time to speak before he muttered, “Not now,” moving past you and dropping his bag on the table with a thud.
“Fred,” you said carefully, “you can’t keep coming home like—”
“Merlin’s sake, can you just stop?” he snapped, spinning around. “One minute—just one—where you don’t hover or ask or push?”
Your chest tightened. “I’m not pushing. I’m trying to talk to you.”
“Well I don’t want to talk!” His voice cracked upward, louder than he intended, but he didn’t take it back. “I’ve had enough noise for one day without coming home to more of it.”
You swallowed, hurt stinging hotter than you expected. “I’m not noise, Fred.”
He laughed. Short and bitter. “Feels like it.”
That one hit you square in the ribs.
For a moment neither of you moved. The air felt thin, stretched, about to break.
Fred turned away, rubbing the back of his neck, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. You stood there, silent, staring at the man who used to greet you with a smile and now looked like he was bracing for impact.