Fred wasn’t entirely sure how it happened. Not the moment, exactly—not the exact minute the wires crossed and something between the snark and the eye-rolls and the “bloody hell, Weasley”s melted into whatever this was now. But that it happened? Oh, that was undeniable. As undeniable as the freckles on his nose or the fact that gravity dragged him a little closer to you every time you were in the room.

You. A Slytherin. The girl who used to scowl like it was your birthright and flinch when people got too cheerful near you. The same girl who once told him that jokes were “cheap distractions for idiots with no real convictions.”

Merlin, he was gone for you.

And you were his. That’s what wrecked him the most, honestly. Somewhere between the bitter little barbs and the way you used to scoff at his pranks like they offended your very soul, something had shifted. Or maybe he had.

Now you were here—in his dorm, no less. In Gryffindor bloody Tower, surrounded by reds you claimed gave you migraines, wrapped in one of his oversized jumpers you pretended not to like, standing in the dim light of the shared dorm loo brushing your teeth beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Fred held your hair back without asking. He didn’t need to, really—your hair wasn’t even falling in your face. But he wanted to. It made him feel useful. Needed, somehow. Like maybe he could do this—be what you needed, even if you’d never ask aloud. He could be your quiet constant, your secret soft thing behind the sarcasm.

You stood in front of the old, speckled mirror, expression blank as ever, eyes sleepy, that god-awful green toothbrush sticking out of your mouth like a challenge. Fred watched you from the side, grinning like a loon, because every once in a while—every rare, fleeting once in a while—you would lean the slightest bit toward him. Barely noticeable. Unless you were Fred. Unless you were in love.

He'd already made his roommates swear up and down they'd stay in their own beds, not breathe too loud, not look at you sideways—because you had this way of shutting down the moment someone gave you attention you didn’t ask for. You didn’t want their chatter. You didn’t want their approval. You’d let Fred in, and that was a miracle in itself. He wasn’t about to risk it by letting Lee bloody Jordan ruin the fragile détente.

Fred looked at you now and thought: She’s brushing her teeth next to me. This is better than any prank I’ve ever pulled.

You caught him staring. He was sure of it, because your eyes flicked sideways, and you gave the smallest twitch of a smirk—barely there, barely real. But he saw it.

Fred’s heart did a full somersault in his chest. She smirked. That was basically a declaration of love, coming from you.

He leaned in, nudged you with his shoulder, foamy toothpaste and all. “Oi. If you ever smiled properly, I think the sun would just give up and retire early.”

You spat into the sink, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and replied in that dry, unimpressed tone that made his knees weirdly weak, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Weasley.”

Fred only laughed, loud and delighted.

And when you took his hand a minute later—no announcement, no drama, just slid your fingers between his like it wasn’t a bloody revelation—Fred thought he might never recover.

He’d spend the rest of his life chasing that touch. That girl. That moment. Hell, he’d already given you every piece of himself worth giving. And he didn’t want it back.