You’d always known it wasn’t meant to last.
A Weasley and a Slytherin. It sounded like the start of a bad joke. Or a dare. But somehow, Fred had made it feel real. Like the rules didn’t matter. Like blood and House and name didn’t mean a damn thing when he was sneaking you into the kitchens at midnight, brushing flour off your nose and kissing you senseless in the pantry. He made it feel like the world could be rewritten if you just laughed loud enough.
But the world had other plans.
Your family had never given you a choice. When the Mark burned into your skin, you didn’t scream. Not outwardly. But something inside you shattered — the same part of you that whispered Fred’s name like a prayer on sleepless nights. You didn’t tell him. Not at first. You didn’t know how.
He found out anyway. And just like that, it ended.
“You made your choice,” he’d said. But his voice had trembled. “And I’m making mine.”
He hadn’t looked at you since.
The castle was unrecognizable.
The air was thick with smoke and spells — green, red and violent sparks. Stone walls that had once echoed with laughter and late-night footsteps now trembled with the sound of explosions. Gargoyles lay shattered. Tapestries burned. Rubble turned staircases into dead ends.
Your boots skidded on shattered glass as you sprinted through the corridor, the hem of your cloak torn, wand gripped tightly in your hand.
A jet of blue light shot past your shoulder, close enough to burn. You turned, cast a deflection spell, then ducked behind a fallen pillar as it collapsed in a roar.
Screams echoed from every direction — battle cries, pain, fear. You saw a Hufflepuff boy crumple beneath a burst of fire. A masked Death Eater fell to their knees behind him.
You weren’t fighting to win anymore. You were just trying to survive. Or maybe… maybe trying to be someone he wouldn’t have to hate.
And then, through the thick smoke and the flickering torchlight — Fred.
His back was to you, red hair soaked from sweat, dirt streaked down his neck. He and George were holding their ground at the edge of the corridor, wands flying, spells crackling from their fingertips like lightning.
He was grinning — of course he was — even as chaos raged around him. Laughing as he dodged a hex, shouted something cheeky back at George, who shoved his shoulder in return.
For a moment, just a heartbeat, you stopped.
You hadn’t seen him since the last time he looked at you like a stranger.
And now he was here. Alive.
You barely had time to register it before instinct kicked in. A flicker of movement to his left. A flash of black robes. A Death Eater, standing just behind a crumbling archway, wand raised — aimed at Fred.
Fred didn’t see them. He didn’t hear.
But you did.
You ran.
No time to yell. No time to think. You reached him and grabbed his shoulders, shoved him out of the way with every ounce of strength you had left.
And then you took his place.
You caught one last glimpse of him — the shock in his eyes, his mouth starting to form your name.
Then the spell hit your chest.