It started with a letter—neatly folded parchment, tucked between your books, signed only with an elegant F., filled with mischief and charm.

“If beauty could kill, I’d be a dead man. But if I must perish, let it be by your hand.”

Then came another. And another. Slipped between your things, waiting at breakfast like clockwork. The handwriting was always the same—playful, teasing, laced with just enough sincerity to make you wonder.

You never wrote back.

Then, one morning, the letters stopped. At first, it was a relief. No more parchment appearing in your things, no more words you refused to acknowledge. But after a week, you caught yourself missing them.

That was when the Howler arrived.

The Great Hall fell silent as the red envelope dropped onto your plate, unfolding with a deafening roar.

“OH, SO YOU CAN READ BUT NOT WRITE, HUH? TOO GOOD TO SEND A LETTER BACK? BLOODY BRILLIANT." Gasps, whispers, stifled laughter rippled through the hall. “MEET ME AT THE WHOMPING WILLOW OR I SWEAR ON MY GRAVE I’LL—”

The letter burst into flames before it could finish.

Laughter erupted. Whispers, smirks.

And you?

You wanted to die.

The wind bit at your skin as you neared the Whomping Willow, arms crossed tight.

Fred stood waiting, smirking. “Oh, now you’re interested? Took a public shaming for that?”

“You’re an idiot,” you hissed.

“And yet, here you are.” He stepped closer, eyes glinting. “Did you really not guess? Who else is this charming?”

Your stomach dropped. “You—it was you?”

Fred snorted. “Merlin, you’re slow.”

“Who insults their crush in a Howler?”

“A desperate man,” he said dramatically. “Do you know how hard I worked on those letters?”

You scowled. “Who says I care?”

His grin wavered. “You didn’t have to. But I did.”

Suddenly, it wasn’t a joke anymore.

“I thought it was funny at first,” he admitted. “Then I realized—I meant every word.”