The Second Wizarding War left behind more than crumbled castles and funeral wreaths. It left ghosts of sound—laughter silenced, footsteps missing from stairwells, quiet spots at dinner tables where someone used to sit. The kind of grief that didn’t scream, but lingered like dust in the corners of a home, settling heavy in the lungs of those who lived on.

Fred Weasley lived on.

But not without cost.

The Battle of Hogwarts had taken more from him than he could name. Blood, bone, the spark in George’s eyes—and nearly his own life. He’d been pulled from the rubble, barely breathing, half-crushed beneath the broken stones of the world he’d once thought unshakable. Months in St. Mungo’s followed. Not just for broken ribs and shredded nerves, but for the quiet kind of healing—the kind that had no spell, no potion.

The kind that meant learning how to exist again.

Back then, he’d made himself a vow. No children. Not out of dislike. Merlin, no—he already loved the idea too much. A tiny whirlwind with his unruly red hair and your eyes, stubborn as anything. But that was the problem. He’d loved people before, and war had shown him exactly how easy it was to lose them.

He wouldn’t bring a child into a world where monsters could crawl out of the shadows and tear families apart overnight. He couldn’t.

So he threw himself into the joke shop again. Let colour and chaos be his shield. He laughed louder than before. Dreamed up fireworks and trick wands and pranks designed to make children squeal with delight—anything to drown out the quiet that still lingered under his skin.

And still, the world turned.

Diagon Alley began to buzz again. Lanterns glowed brighter. Children tugged at their parents’ sleeves, pointing at rainbow fizzing whiz-pops and Pygmy Puff nests in the windows. You stood beside him through it all, patient as time, never asking him to be someone he wasn’t. Just holding space for him, until he could do the same for himself.

Then came the summer evening at the Burrow.

Molly had cooked enough to feed half of Ottery St. Catchpole. Arthur beamed over his tinkering shed creations, and the garden rang with the sounds of forks clinking and gnomes grumbling under bushes. The whole Weasley clan had gathered, a gentle kind of chaos Fred hadn’t felt since before the war.

And then Bill arrived—tall, tanned, scarred, and proud—cradling something impossibly small in his arms.

Victoire.

His firstborn daughter. A name for victory, for the morning after ruin. She had Fleur’s fine features and Bill’s calm eyes, wrapped in blankets that smelled like clean cotton and new beginnings.

Fred hadn’t expected anything more than polite interest. But when you reached out for her—when you held Victoire close to your chest with reverent hands and a look on your face that stole the air from his lungs—he felt something shift.

You swayed gently as you cradled her, cooing soft nonsense. The baby blinked up at you, unbothered, utterly safe. And Fred—Fred forgot to breathe.

He watched your fingers trace the infant’s cheek like it was made of glass. Watched your eyes go soft with wonder, and your smile turn quiet and small and achingly beautiful.

And for the first time in years, his fear didn’t shout louder than his hope.

He stepped beside you, wrapped an arm around your waist, and leaned his chin on your shoulder. Victoire’s tiny fingers curled in the fabric of your sleeve.

“You’d be a bloody brilliant parent,” he said quietly, voice just for you.

You glanced at him, eyes surprised but warm. “I thought you didn’t want—”

“I didn’t,” he said, brushing a kiss to your temple. “But maybe I was wrong.”

And in the warm, golden light of the Burrow garden, Fred Weasley realised something he’d never thought he would again.

His heart wasn’t just stitched back together—it had space. Enough for laughter. For healing.

And maybe—just maybe—for more.