Fred was just strolling past the old third-floor corridor — hands in his pockets, whistling something suspiciously close to the tune of the Hogwarts school song played in reverse — when a soft, sharp voice hissed from behind a cracked doorway.

“Weasley!”

He turned, brows raised, ready to deliver some dazzling retort — only to see you, half-hidden in the doorway of what was very clearly the abandoned third-floor girls’ bathroom.

“I usually wait for a proper date before following a girl into a bathroom,” he said with a crooked grin, “but if this is how you flirt, I’m intrigued.”

“Shut up,” you snapped, flustered and a little desperate. “You’re not a prat, right?”

That gave him pause. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not a dickhead, right?” you repeated, eyes darting down the hall nervously. “You and George — you two have those, um… secret tunnels into Hogsmeade, yeah?”

Fred blinked, then straightened — now properly curious. “We do. Why?”

There was a long beat. You shifted uncomfortably.

“Could you maybe… sneak down there and get some… um… pads? Or tampons? Or… anything, really?”

Your voice dropped toward the end. Your cheeks were already turning red. Fred didn’t tease you. Not this time.

His grin softened.

“Yeah,” he said without hesitation. “Of course. You got a preference or just… a little bit of everything?”

You nodded mutely, relieved but still embarrassed. He gave a small, respectful salute.

“Consider it handled. Operation: Emergency Supply Run is now underway. I’ll be back in under twenty minutes — thirty if Zonko’s distracts me.”

He turned, took two steps, then paused.

“And hey…” He looked back over his shoulder with a reassuring smile. “Not a dickhead. Swear on my mum.”