The Burrow smelled like cinnamon and mischief.

It always did, honestly—but something about being there in the middle of summer, with the windows cracked open and the sound of gnomes screeching in the garden, made everything feel even more alive.

You were only there for the weekend.

Just you, Ron, Harry, and Hermione — a quick break from everything. No Voldemort, no exams, no sneaking around at night with wands lit and nerves fried. Just warmth, Molly’s cooking, creaky floorboards, and the smell of something always baking.

And you? You were just glad to be somewhere that felt like home.

Except home didn’t usually come with Fred Weasley lurking around every corner.

Fred Weasley. The ever-present, ever-mischievous shadow of your Hogwarts years — taller than he had any right to be, louder than necessary, and always around when you didn’t want him to be.

He was older. Annoying. The classic older brother type—especially because he was Ron’s older brother. Fred, who’d been annoying you since your second year. Fred, who once turned your school bag into a howling toad. Fred, who called you “Ron’s little shadow” for three years straight. Fred, who was now taller, broader, and somehow hotter in a way that made you want to scream into your pillow.

He never left you alone.

And now that you were older? It was worse.

He’d grown into that too-tall frame, shoulders broader, grin cockier. He still had that same sparkle in his eyes that screamed I’m up to something, but there was something else there now too. Something heavier. Wariness behind the laughter. That look you’d seen when he thought no one was watching.

Not that you watched Fred Weasley. Except you kind of did. Just a little.

That first evening was a blur of Molly’s food, loud conversations with Arthur and Percy, and crashing elbows as everyone crowded into the sitting room. You sat cross-legged on the floor with Ron, Harry, and Hermione, laughing over a game of Exploding Snap. The fire crackled, warm against your back. Fred passed by once, brushing too close behind you—just enough that you felt the heat of him.

Then again, later, in the kitchen.

You’d gone for water, alone, and of course he found you. Leaning on the counter like he owned it. Like he’d been waiting.

“Thirsty, are we?” he asked, voice full of that familiar smugness.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t you have a broom to polish or something?”

Fred grinned. “Why? Jealous it gets more attention than you?”

You turned, glass in hand. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are. In my house.” He stepped closer, just enough that your shoulder bumped his chest when you tried to pass. “I should charge rent.”

“You should be hexed.”

“Now, now.” His grin widened. “Is that any way to speak to your host? I even let you use the good pillow.”

Damn him. He always got under your skin—he lived under your skin—but it was harder to stay annoyed when he stood that close, when his voice dropped just a bit, when his teasing wasn’t quite as loud anymore. Quieter. Just for you.