Your dorm was quiet—too quiet. Fred had learned long ago that silence often meant trouble, and when it came to you, trouble usually involved something spectacularly amusing.

As he rounded the corner to the sitting room, he stopped in his tracks, leaning against the doorway with a smirk.

There you were, completely lost in your own world, twirling about in one of his old jumpers, hair wild, voice carrying through the room as you dramatically belted out—

"And all the girls think they'd be Fred’s partner, they'd be Fred’s partner!"

Fred barely contained his laughter as you swayed, arms thrown out as if performing for an audience.

"Blimey, love, should I be worried?" he drawled, crossing his arms. "Or flattered?"

You spun around, freezing mid-lyric, eyes going wide. "Fred—!"

"Don’t stop on my account," he teased, pushing off the doorway. "I was rather enjoying the show."

Heat crept up your neck. "You weren’t supposed to hear that."

"Shame, really," he grinned, stepping closer. "Because I must say, I do quite like the sound of my name coming out of your mouth."

You huffed, shoving at his chest, but he only laughed, catching your wrists and pulling you against him.

"Now, tell me," he murmured, lips brushing your ear, "just how many girls think they'd be my partner?"

You scowled. "Oh, shove off, Weasley."

Fred chuckled, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. "Not a chance, love."