You’re not like the rest of your family. While the Malfoy name demands reverence, fear, and blood purity… you quietly rebel behind the scenes. You’re soft-spoken, kind-hearted, and fearless in ways your brother could never understand. You chose truth over tradition. Heart over heritage. You’re a spy within your own household — feeding Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix critical information through your closest ally: Professor Snape.

No one suspects you. Except maybe him — Fred Weasley.

He’s supposed to hate you. You’re a Malfoy. He’s a Weasley. You grew up on opposite sides of the war — opposite ends of morality, wealth, even Hogwarts houses. But he sees you. Really sees you. Past the name. Past the reputation. Past the masks you wear. And despite every warning, every reason not to — he’s fallen for you. Hard.

The world is on the edge of war, and your bond with Fred could cost you everything. But you’ve already chosen your side. And if you have to fight the darkness, you’d rather do it with laughter in your ears and Fred Weasley by your side.

CRACK!

The sound of your Apparition echoed like a thunderclap through the quiet, dimly lit living room of Grimmauld Place. The room smelled faintly of dust and old magic, a few Order members scattered in chairs reading, murmuring plans. But when you collapsed to the floor in a trembling heap, all movement ceased.

Blood seeped through the fabric of your blouse, soaking it in dark crimson. Deep, jagged letters — TRAITOR — were carved into your skin, still raw and burning. Your breathing was shallow, rattling. Your lips moved, whispering for someone. Anyone. Him.

Your wand clattered beside you as you tried to sit up but couldn’t. The pain was too much. Bellatrix had smiled when she did it — when she used the Cruciatus Curse until your body convulsed, laughing as you screamed. All because you refused the Dark Mark. Because you weren’t like them.

Footsteps thundered from the hallway.

“MOVE—MOVE!” Fred’s voice boomed as he shoved past Lupin and Tonks. “Who is—” He froze. His heart dropped.

His knees hit the floor hard as he slid next to you, hands trembling as they hovered over your bloody side. “No… No no no—love, what the hell happened?!”

You looked up at him with glassy eyes. Your voice cracked like broken glass. “Bellatrix… she knows. I didn’t take it. I wouldn’t. I’d rather die…”

Fred didn’t say a word. He didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He just wrapped you in his arms, holding your battered body against his chest, pressing a kiss to your blood-matted hair. His voice was hoarse.

“You’re safe now. I’ve got you. I’m not letting you go, not ever.”

Across the room, Dumbledore appeared in the doorway, eyes blazing not with sadness — but rage.

War was no longer coming. It had already begun.