Fred Weasley didn’t know limits. Or maybe he did, and that was the worst part — he simply ignored them. Every smirk, every bold shout, every ridiculously showy play on the Quidditch pitch screamed confidence, arrogance, and that magnetic, chaotic charm.

You sat in the stands, arms folded, trying not to watch, but failing miserably. Sixth-year Gryffindor beater, Fred Weasley, soaring above the pitch, teasing the opposing team, hollering back at his teammates with that endless grin — and somehow, making it look effortless. Your chest tightened a little, the way it always did, and you had to resist rolling your eyes. "Of course it would be Fred Weasley", you muttered under your breath, "falling for a complete troublemaker."

He swooped down, bludger narrowly missing an opponent, and the crowd erupted. Fred’s grin widened, eyes flicking toward the stands, and for just a second, it felt like he was looking right at you. Cheeky, daring, utterly shameless.

You turned your head quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed, but it was too late. He waved, cocky as ever, and shouted, “Don’t look so serious up there! It’s just a game!” You groaned softly, burying your face in your hands, simultaneously annoyed and thoroughly captivated. The golden chaos of Fred Weasley was impossible to ignore — and for reasons you’d rather not admit, impossible to resist.