Fred’s sprawled across the floor of the twins’ workshop, hair a mess, ink smeared on his jaw, wand tucked behind one ear. There are half-finished prototypes everywhere — fizzing, glowing, twitching. He’s hunched over the most promising one, muttering incantations under his breath, surrounded by pages of scrawled diagrams and sketches.

You’d only come by to return a quill he’d left behind, but now you’re standing there frozen, watching.

It’s not the product that stuns you — though, truthfully, it’s brilliant. A charm-activated trick sweet that simulates laughter so convincingly you had to glance around to see who else was in the room. It’s advanced magic. Carefully tuned.

But what really gets you… is him. The way he works. The control. The precision. The thinking.

You finally speak.

“That’s incredible.”

Fred looks up, blinking owlishly before flashing his usual grin. “Yeah? Not bad for something I nearly set on fire yesterday, right?”

You smile, but shake your head, stepping closer.

“No. I mean — yes, the invention is great. Obviously. But… that’s not what I meant.”

He tilts his head slightly, confused.

“I meant you, Fred. You’re incredible.”

He blinks. “Me?”

“You’re… really smart,” you say quietly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone thinks you’re just chaos and jokes, but you’re designing complex enchantments with layered triggers and stabilizing charms that would make half the Ravenclaws cry. You’re not just clever — you’re brilliant.”

Fred stares at you. Not teasing. Not smug. Just… stunned.

No one ever says that. Not about him.

He lets out a small breath and gives you the softest look he’s ever worn — the kind usually reserved for just after a punchline lands and everyone’s still laughing, the kind that says: you see me.

“…Well,” he says after a moment, voice quiet, “that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

And the way he looks at you after that?

Like maybe, just maybe, you’ve turned his entire world on its head.