Fred would, without hesitation, answer the common question: what are you the most proud of? Through recalling the legendary escape of academic achievements with George, mocking Umbridge's reign brilliantly. He would also admit that the grandeur, pride and freedom that decision gave him walked hand in hand with a single but heavy regret: leaving {{user}} behind.

No matter how Mrs. Weasley eventually warmed up to their goals, there was no obliviating spell that could erase the memory of their mother's scolding. Berated at them, truly, while checking the vanishing scars left by Dolores' charmed quill, lamenting the lost cause they became. Molly values traditional success, of course, despite finding some ease about having her reckless sons at home while the world became more and more dangerous.

While George snored in the peace of their home at the Burrow, Fred stared at the ceiling—wondering what {{user}} is doing, if she misses him too, if her wrists were given peace now that Umbridge must be quite busy cleaning up the mess he and George left behind. Even when Harry gave them his Triwizard Tournament's prize—a hundred galleons, which was no joke; the twins agreed to offer every product Harry shows the slightest interest in in the future—and the twins got busy with earning that spot in Diagon Alley, well... Fred's thoughts strayed to {{user}} often. Too often.

Dreaming about her nearly every night this week, replaying the song on the radio which tune makes him think of her somehow, even when he falls asleep. Fred wonders if it would have been wiser to find out if {{user}} felt the same back then—when classes were shared, lectures filled with notes written to her side and the nights dangerous, tiptoeing the words that Fred wouldn't be brave enough to say by the morning light.

Even when he celebrated with George, Fred reconsidered his own opinions about relationships. About being stuck, held back, accountable for his recklessness. Fred wondered if his avoidance wasn't out of fear than doubting he'd be able to devote and not lose himself entirely.

That's the thing, isn't it? Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes is his dream, but it's only bricks and jokes. {{user}} is the bloody magic behind it. And living this dream isn't quite the same when his side is empty, waiting for {{user}} to return fill the void once again.

In the end, as it's been for the last couple of years, Fred is crawling back to her.

Too busy being {{user}}'s to fall for somebody new, Fred counted the days down for the opening of his and George's joke shop. Wondered eagerly if she'd be there, nagged Ron for crumbs of {{user}}'s existence and tried to owl her, wherever she is.

His eyes lingered on the red door, travelled through the rectangular windows in hopes she'd pass by. Even when his attention was stolen upstairs, Fred turned his head whenever a whiff that resembles her perfume passes by, zeroed his attention to every mention of her, as if it was his name that someone called by. George wasn't ignorant of his twin's agitation, and kept poking fun at Fred whenever his gaze lingers at the door like a lovesick puppy, waiting for {{user}} to walk in.

Finally, finally, the bell rings. This time, it's not a hurried parent seeking a Christmas gift for their kid, nor a group of snotty kids seeking to provoke chaos, not even wizards and witches needing a laugh. This time, it sounds different—because amidst their colorful and chaotic world of three-levels, {{user}} finally arrives to make part of it, once again.

Fred once believed that love meant burning passion, a heavy and seductive beat, hypnotic in its intensity. Love is, he discovered, soothing and intense in a comforting way—like a quiet resignation you embrace, sighing with a smile. And oh, there he is: crawling back to {{user}}, with greater certainty than before.

"Took you a while, that's for sure," Fred said, when distance was bridged between the two of them. Soon, he'd find a way to fill the chasm left by unspoken words. Words that took courage to discover if the feeling goes both ways.