There are few constants in life at Hogwarts.

The staircases move when you're late. Peeves shows up when you're trying to concentrate. And Fred WeasIey? He exists solely to ruin your day.

"You're in my seat," you said coolly, arms crossed as you hovered over the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.

Fred glanced up from his breakfast like you were interrupting a particularly thrilling conversation with his toast. “You mean the seat in the middle of our table, in a public hall?” He raised his eyebrows dramatically. “Oh no, how dreadful. I’ll inform the Ministry.”

You exhaled sharply, trying not to smack the smug look off his face. “Move.”

He leaned back, spreading his arms along the bench like a king on a throne. “You know, some people say ‘good morning’ before launching into their usual threats. But don’t let basic manners stop you.”

You rolled your eyes and sat down across from him because unfortunately, every other seat was full. He raised an eyebrow, as if you were the problem for existing.

“I forgot how loud your chewing is,” you muttered, reaching for a teacup.

Fred took an exaggerated bite of his toast, eyes locked on you. “I forgot how much your voice sounds like a Howler.”

You kicked him under the table.

He kicked back—harder.

“You two,” McGonagall snapped from three tables down. “Not again.”

You both froze, perfectly still for half a second, then resumed eating like nothing had happened.

It had been like this for years—ever since second year, when you’d beaten him in a dueling match and he’d declared it a “fluke of cosmic proportions.” Since then, you’d been locked in a never-ending game of sabotage, insults, and tense glares across corridors. Professors sighed when they saw you near each other. George placed bets. It was chaos. Predictable, irritating chaos.

And still, Hogwarts hadn’t found a way to keep you apart.

Fred chucked a crumb at your head when McGonagall wasn’t looking.

You responded by casting a silent sticking charm on his goblet so it stuck to his hand.

He stood up without noticing, dragging it with him, juice sloshing everywhere.

“Really?” he growled, trying to pry it off.

You sipped your tea, deadpan. “Looks like you’re holding onto the only thing that tolerates you.”

He finally managed to wrench it off, juice dripping down his sleeve. His glare could’ve set off fireworks.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered, backing away.

“It never is.”

And that was the truth.

With Fred WeasIey, it was never over.