The first sign something was wrong was the silence.

Fred Weasley had learned to trust noise—laughter, shouting, George’s running commentary echoing through the Gryffindor common room like a second heartbeat. Silence meant trouble. Or worse. So when he stepped through the portrait hole and found Harry and Ron sitting rigid on the couch, Hermione nowhere to be seen, and you standing near the stairs with your jaw set so tight it could crack stone—Fred stilled.

“What did Malfoy do,” Fred asked flatly.

Harry looked up, eyes dark. Ron’s ears were red with fury. Neither of them answered. They didn’t have to.

Hermione came out of the girls’ dormitory a moment later, eyes red-rimmed, shoulders hunched in on herself like she was trying to disappear. She wiped at her cheeks quickly when she saw you—but it was too late. You’d already seen the way her hands trembled, the way she wouldn’t quite meet anyone’s eyes.

Fred watched your expression change.

Not explode. Not rage.

Harden.

You crossed the room, pulled Hermione into a brief, fierce hug, whispered something Fred couldn’t hear. Then you turned, grabbed your wand from the table, and headed straight for the portrait hole.

“Oi—” Fred started, already moving.

You didn’t slow down.

Fred followed, long legs eating the distance, heart thudding because he knew that look. He’d seen it once before—when someone had hexed George behind your back. He didn’t bother asking where you were going.

The courtyard was nearly empty, winter air sharp against stone. Draco Malfoy’s voice carried anyway, lazy and cruel, drifting as he laughed with Crabbe and Goyle near the fountain.

Fred opened his mouth.

You didn’t.

You closed the distance in three strides and hit him.

Your fist connected with Malfoy’s jaw with a sharp, satisfying crack, snapping his head to the side and sending him stumbling back into the fountain’s edge. Crabbe shouted. Goyle froze.

Before Malfoy could even draw breath, you had your wand out.

Fred skidded to a halt just behind you as you seized Malfoy by the front of his robes, yanked him upright, and jammed your wand straight into the hollow of his throat.

Your voice was low. Deadly calm.

“If I ever hear you say that awful word again, Malfoy,” you said, eyes burning, “I swear to Merlin himself—not even your father will be able to help you. Do I make myself clear?”

Malfoy swallowed hard. Fred could see it. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, pale face gone even paler.

“I—” Malfoy croaked.

“Clear,” you repeated, pressing the wand just enough to make the point unmistakable.

Fred stepped up then, positioning himself just behind you, presence solid and unmistakable. His voice, when he spoke, was deceptively light.

“She means it.”

Malfoy nodded frantically.

You released him with a shove that sent him staggering back into Crabbe, then turned on your heel without another word.

Fred followed you, adrenaline buzzing, pride and worry tangled tight in his chest.

As soon as you were out of sight, he reached for your hand—squeezed it once.

“Remind me never to be on your bad side,” he murmured, eyes bright. “Merlin help anyone who makes Hermione cry when you’re around.”

Behind you, the courtyard stayed silent.

Malfoy didn’t laugh again.