You had watched every second of the match.

Every missed swing. Every stolen goal. Every time Slytherin’s Chasers darted past Fred like they owned the pitch. Gryffindor had fought hard, but the scoreboards didn’t lie. They lost. And the moment the whistle blew, Fred didn’t even pretend to take it well.

He tore off across the grass, storming off the pitch with his bat clutched tightly in his hand. He swung it once in the air, a sharp, angry arc that made the crowd flinch.

You climbed down and followed him, pushing through the crowd and heading straight for the locker rooms.

The closer you got to the locker room, the louder the sounds became. Metal, swearing, the kind of low growl Fred only made when he was holding himself together by a thread. George was the first one you saw, walking out with his hair plastered to his forehead, sweat dripping down his cheek.

He stopped when he saw you.

“He’s pissed,” George said simply, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Like really pissed. Might want to wait a minute.”

You didn’t.

You pushed the door open.

Fred was inside, shirtless, muscles tense, breath sharp. Cursing under his breath. Sweat running down his chest. His hair a mess from the match and from dragging his hands through it on repeat.

He didn’t see you at first. Then you softly said his name and he spun around, jaw tight, chest rising and falling.

His eyes met yours

Everything in the room shifted.

The air changed, thick and hot, the leftover steam and sweat mixing with the frustration pouring off him. His shoulders dropped just a fraction when he recognised you, but the storm was still there, burning behind his eyes, coiled in every muscle.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, voice low and rough. Scraped from yelling during the game.

You took a slow step in. “Came to check on you.”

Fred let out a humourless breath, “Brilliant match to watch, wasn’t it?” His mouth twitched, the anger still simmering. “Bloody Slytherin thinks they’re so—”

He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair again. And Merlin, he looked good like that. Frustrated. Shirtless. Breathless. Worked up in every possible way.

He noticed your stare.

His eyes flicked down your face, then back up, and something in him shifted. The anger turning into something else entirely. Something hotter. Something that made the space between you suddenly feel too small.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that right now,” he murmured, voice even lower than before.

“Why not?” you asked.

Fred swallowed, jaw clenching as he stepped closer. Just one slow, dangerous step that brought the heat of him right up against you.

“Because I’m already worked up enough,” he said, breath brushing your cheek “and you’re not helping.”