The sun dipped behind the towers of Hogwarts, casting a soft amber glow over the Quidditch pitch. You stood near the edge of the field, the chill of the late afternoon clinging to your arms despite the warmth pooling under your skin.

Five months and two weeks along.

The fabric of your uniform hugged your bump now, your vest shirt stretched just enough to remind you that things were different, undeniably real. Yet still, there you were, half-hidden behind the stands, hand cradling your stomach like a reflex as the match wound down.

Fred was in the air, laughing mid-shout, weaving around his teammates with that reckless ease only he could make look smooth. You didn’t think he saw you yet, but you watched him like you always did—heart in your throat, a little terrified, a little in love.

When he finally landed, the rest of the team scattered in pairs of chatter and slaps on the back. Fred pulled off his gloves, and as he turned, his eyes caught on you.

He froze.

Then, he ran a hand through his sweat-mussed hair, pushing it back in that careless way that made your knees feel like they’d give out. His shirt clung to him in all the right places, collar open, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and Merlin help you, he looked like trouble in the most maddening, perfect way.

You stepped forward, slowly. The sound of your shoes on the packed earth barely registered, your bump shifting gently with each stride.

He didn’t look away, didn’t smile—just watched you, like he was bracing himself for something.

You reached the edge of the pitch, your breath caught halfway in your chest when he finally opened his mouth to say—