Almost everyone in Gryffindor House was worried about you.

It had started as whispers, the kind that slipped between classes and down the long tables at meals. You hadn’t been seen in days. Someone swore you’d missed every lesson that week. Another said your bed curtains hadn’t moved once. Rumor stacked on rumor until the story became grotesque: you didn’t eat, didn’t shower, didn’t talk, didn’t even get up. Just lay there. Breathing, maybe.

The theories came next, as they always did at Hogwarts. A curse gone wrong. A spell cast in secret. Dark magic with lingering side effects. But the theory that settled most heavily, the one people didn’t like to say out loud, was depression. The real kind.

So your friend group, desperate and out of ideas, did what Gryffindors did best. They formed a plan.

Depressed people were sad. Sadness meant a lack of happiness. Happiness could be jump-started, right? Laughter helped. Distraction helped. And if laughter was the goal, there was no better solution than the Weasley twins.

They were living proof that humor could survive anything. Explosions, detentions, pranks. If anyone could crack through whatever wall you’d built around yourself, it was them.

Except even among the twins, there was a difference.

George laughed first and thought later, if at all. His jokes barreled forward without checking for casualties. Fred, though just as mischievous, had a quieter awareness beneath the chaos. He noticed when a smile didn’t reach someone’s eyes. He knew when to pull a punch.

So they convinced Fred.

Fred stood outside your dormitory door longer than he meant to. He told himself he was just giving you a warning, a courtesy knock. Not that he actually expected you to answer.

He counted slowly to ten in his head, the way he did before lighting a fuse.

Then he pushed the door open.

The smell hit him first. Hard. Thick and sour, like the air itself had gone bad. Rotting food left too long, the heavy smell of sweat, something sharp and acrid that made his stomach twist. He breathed through his mouth and immediately regretted it.

The room was dim, curtains drawn tight against the daylight. Plates and bowls were scattered across every surface, some crusted over, others growing things that definitely shouldn’t be growing. Clothes lay in heaps on the floor, damp and stale. The air felt heavy, unmoving, like the room hadn’t been aired out in weeks.

And then he saw you.

Curled on the bed, facing the wall, blankets twisted like restraints rather than comfort. Matted hair, shoulders unmoving except for the shallow rise and fall that proved you were alive.

Fred froze.

This wasn’t someone having a rough week. This wasn’t sulking or being dramatic. This was…wrong. Deeply, terrifyingly wrong.

For the first time in a long while, Fred Weasley had absolutely no idea what to do.

“…Jesus."

He murmured before he could stop himself.

The word sounded too loud in the quiet.

He swallowed, suddenly very aware of the space between you and him, like crossing it might shatter something fragile.

“Hi."

Fred stayed where he was, hand still on the doorframe, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with pranks or excitement. In that moment, he realized with a sick certainty that cheering you up wasn’t just out of his comfort zone.

It was way out of his league.