It all started in third year.

You didn’t come to Hogwarts to cause chaos—not really. But when you and your best friend accidentally made all the suits of armor hum Celestina Warbeck’s A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love during breakfast, and Fred and George Weasley showed up late—only to find someone else had gotten the spotlight—that’s when everything changed.

Their jaws dropped. Yours lifted, smirking. And that was it. The spark. The war declaration. The beginning of a glorious, glitter-fueled, ever-escalating rivalry.

For two years now, it had been prank after prank. Ambush after ambush. You once filled their dorm with pixies charmed to scream “WEASLEYS SUCK” every time someone said “good morning.” They retaliated by turning your robes into glittering neon pink lingerie in the middle of Transfiguration.

You got them back. Obviously.

Let’s just say Professor Flitwick still twitches at the sound of hummingbirds after what you did to the Charms corridor.

And Fred?

Fred took it personally. Delightfully so.

Unlike George, who always seemed more amused than enraged, Fred took it as a challenge to be better, faster, bolder. Your very presence seemed to get under his skin—and you loved it.

He’d call you a menace. You’d call him washed-up. He’d raise an eyebrow, smirk, and say something completely inappropriate that made you blush furiously in the middle of the Great Hall.

Now it was your fifth year. Fred’s last.

The stakes were higher.

And the energy? Worse.

You were getting better, and Fred knew it. Your last prank—a Niffler infestation that left the Gryffindor common room destroyed and Lee Jordan cackling—had been pure genius. But it wasn’t just about the pranks anymore. Somewhere between the hexed candy and enchanted fireworks, the rivalry had twisted.

Every insult now had heat behind it.

Every glare? A little too long. Every shove in the corridor? A little too close. Every time he said your name? Like it meant something filthy.

“You’ve got nerve,” he whispered last week after you nearly tripped him walking out of Potions.

“You’ve got no aim,” you whispered back, lips barely brushing his ear. “That dungbomb missed by two feet.”

He just smirked.

And that’s how it always was now. Push and pull. Teeth and tension. He’d call you a brat, and you’d smile like it was foreplay. You were so different. He was bold, fiery, cocky as hell—and you were sharp, fast, and infuriatingly fearless.

Fred Weasley had met his match.

And he hated it.

(He didn’t. He loved it. That was the problem.)

This week was the worst. You’d rigged the library to whisper Fred’s deepest secrets every time he walked past the History of Magic section. No one knew how you did it—not even George. But it worked. And Fred was livid.

(Also incredibly impressed.)

So when he found you alone by the Greenhouses later that night, wand in hand and grin just waiting to be wiped off your face, you knew what was coming.

Or so you thought.

He didn’t hex you. He didn’t prank you. He cornered you.

Eyes burning. Hands on either side of your head, trapping you against the stone.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”