The Weasleys had always felt like home — long before you and George ever became anything more. That was part of what made it so complicated.

Because once upon a time, it hadn’t been George you were sneaking around with, or whose laughter you’d gotten drunk on until your ribs ached. It was Fred.

Your relationship with him had been wild, like fireworks going off in every direction. Brilliant and reckless, full of heat but never steady. Some days you couldn’t keep your hands off each other, and other days you couldn’t even look at him without a fight starting. Neither of you knew how to slow down, how to find balance. It ended as dramatically as it began — one last argument that scorched you both, words thrown like hexes. You swore it was done. He swore he didn’t care.

But distance made it real. You stopped answering his owls. He stopped sending them. And when George quietly slipped into the empty space Fred left behind, you realized how different love could feel. George wasn’t reckless. He was steady. Patient. He let you breathe. He made you laugh without cutting you open. Somewhere along the line, his hand fit perfectly in yours, and it didn’t feel like betrayal — it felt like safety.

And now, in just a few weeks, you were supposed to marry him.

The Burrow was buzzing with pre-wedding chaos: Molly fussing with lists, Ginny teasing you about nerves, Arthur sneaking you advice in quiet corners. George kissed you in the kitchen between errands, slipping you smiles that melted away the stress. Everything should have been perfect.

Except Fred.

He’d been distant at first when you came to stay, throwing himself into work, into laughter, into anything but you. But then… he softened. He started lingering in the garden when you were there. Sitting next to you during dinner. Talking like he used to, before everything fell apart. And maybe it was your fault for laughing back, for letting him remind you of what once was.

It came to a head one evening. The house was loud with chatter, but the hallway was quiet when you turned and found him standing there, leaning against the wall as if he’d been waiting for you.

“You know,” he started, voice low, almost casual but not quite, “I thought I was over it. Over you.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t answer. He pushed on anyway.

“But then this summer—being around you again, and talking the way that we used to. You looking at me the way that you used to…” His words trailed, his throat working as if it hurt to say them. “I just see you again, and all my plans go to shit.”

“Fred—” you warned softly, but he shook his head.

“I love George. He’s my brother, he’s my family.” His voice cracked, raw in a way you’d never heard from him. “And I hate myself for doing this, but when I see you guys together I fucking hate him. I hate him, {{user}}.”

“Don’t,” you whispered, the word trembling out of you before you could stop it. “Don’t say it.”

But he stepped closer, eyes blazing, desperation written all over him.

“Don’t be with him. Don’t marry him.” His voice was ragged, pleading. “Be with me.”

The words hung in the space between you, louder than the chaos of the Burrow beyond.