You hadn’t said a word to him since last night.

Not after the way things ended—muffled voices behind the Burrow, hearts still raw from something that had been… big. Intimate. Your first time, with Fred, and now silence? It felt like you were holding your breath in a room that refused to open a window.

You sat with Hermione under the shade of the tree, reading a book you hadn’t turned a page of in twenty minutes. Your sister knew better than to push you about it. Ron kept glancing back and forth like you were all playing some quiet war, and George—well, George wasn’t helping.

“I think your girlfriend’s replacing you with a stack of parchment,” George muttered as Fred passed by, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

Fred didn’t reply. Didn’t smirk. Just kept walking—until he didn’t.

He stopped, turned around, and marched toward you with that same stormcloud in his eyes. “You can’t just ignore me forever.”

You didn’t look up.

“I know I messed up,” he added, voice low and sharp. “But acting like I don’t exist? That’s rich.”

Hermione cleared her throat, gathering her things with a little too much urgency. “I’ll… just go inside.”

Fred’s eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Say something. Please.”

The thing is—you wanted to. But you were still hurting. And he knew that. Which is why he was mad. Not at you. At himself.

Your fingers gripped the hem of your skirt, knuckles white.

“Why’d you say it like it didn’t mean anything?” you finally asked, voice barely a whisper.

Fred blinked. Whatever fire he had left—gone..