Angelina had ended things a week ago—cordially, cleanly, like two teammates calling time on a long match where neither side had really been playing for the win. He’d loved her, yeah. Respected her, admired her, had proper heart-in-throat moments around her. But he’d never ached for her. Not the way he thought he should. Not in the way that sat heavy in his ribs and messed with his breathing.

George hadn’t understood. “So... you’re sad because you weren’t in love with her?” he’d asked, perplexed. “Mate, that’s like crying over not being hungry after dinner.” Fred didn’t try to explain it after that. Not to George. Not to anyone.

It was only in the slow silence after the break-up—when the world seemed to blink with new colour—that he realised what had been missing. There was a freedom now, a strange, subtle thrill in simply looking. And then, he looked at you.

You’d been around for ages, of course. Slytherin. A couple shared classes. Your expression permanently unreadable, your brows knitted like life hadn’t yet shown up how you needed it to. He hadn’t paid you much mind before, but now—now you moved through the corridors like a poem written in margins, like a secret dare waiting to be spoken aloud.

It was somewhere between Monday’s DADA class—where your hexes were clean and mean, and your voice never shook—and Wednesday’s Potions—where you stirred a simmering concoction with the grace of someone born for control—that Fred felt it. That pull. That possibility. It took him by surprise, lodged itself behind his ribs and made a mess of his head. You weren’t just intriguing. You were unignorable.

George said you were a viper. “Sharp tongue, sharper wand,” he’d warned with a laugh, tossing a Sugar Quill between his teeth. “You try it with her, and she’ll make sure your eyebrows grow backwards.”

Fred only shrugged. “Worth the risk.”

And so, Thursday rolled around. The afternoon light in the DADA classroom slanted through narrow windows, painting the desks with long, golden streaks. The class ended, chairs scraped, parchment rustled. You were gathering your things with that same detached calm that somehow made his fingers itch.

Fred made a choice. He slid into the seat beside you, all casual confidence and a flicker of something sharper in his eyes. He grinned—that irreverent, crooked grin of his that usually meant a prank was coming—and leaned his elbow on the desk.

“Alright, Viper,” he murmured low enough for only you to hear, a spark in his voice like the start of a fuse. “Fancy going out with a Gryffindor disaster like me? I promise not to charm your shoes off. First date, at least.”

And just like that, Fred Weasley—the boy with fire in his hands and jokes for armor—found himself hoping, for the first time in a long while, that someone might just set him alight.