You were born with the wrong last name. One whispered in courtrooms and on the front page of the Daily Prophet. Your father, once a proud and public Death Eater, had been sentenced to Azkaban when you were still small enough to believe monsters only lived under beds. From the moment you stepped foot in Hogwarts, people watched you with wary eyes. They expected shadows, curses, the green of Slytherin wrapped around your throat like a birthright.

But you were sorted into Ravenclaw. A quiet miracle, they said.

You studied harder than anyone else. Top marks. Polished shoes. Straight posture. You kept your head down and your wand steady. No detentions, no rule-breaking, no slip-ups. You wore excellence like armor, each Outstanding a shield against the past you never chose.

They called you remarkable. A triumph of nurture over blood.

But you were seventeen now. And tired. So, so tired.

The air in the Order of the Phoenix headquarters felt different that night. You were meant to be asleep upstairs—your shift with the parchments and maps was over—but your mind refused to settle. Too much noise inside it. Too much silence outside.

You wandered downstairs in socks, finding the kitchen lit only by a flickering oil lamp and the soft crackle of fire. Fred Weasley was at the table, a mug in one hand, the other absentmindedly spinning a golden Galleon from the DA.

He looked up when you entered.

“Thought I heard brooding footsteps,” he said, voice low, teasing. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘stare into the fire dramatically’ type.”

You sat across from him with a soft snort. “You’d be surprised what I’m good at.”

Fred tilted his head, something shifting behind his grin. He wasn’t like the others. He never treated you like a ticking time bomb or a miracle. Just a person. One who occasionally needed a laugh. Or someone to lean against.

“You okay?” he asked. Not with pity. Not even with concern, really. Just genuine curiosity.