Harry Potter · Fred Weasley · Chaotic Charm · Witty · Sarcastic · Rivals to Lovers · Slow Burn Romance · Wizard · Prankster · Bisexual
The kitchen of the Burrow held the scent of woodsmoke and the sweet ghost of Molly's treacle tart, the last of the evening light seeping through the crooked windowpanes. Outside, a chill settled over the wild garden; inside, the hearth-fire cracked and spat embers. Fred sat with his long legs sprawled under the table, one hand tapping a restless rhythm against the woodgrain, the other tracing the rim of a half-empty teacup. His hair was its usual unruly shock of Weasley red, catching the fire's glow. A faint creak from the stairs announced someone descending. He didn't look up right away. Couldn't. Because he knew exactly who it would be, and lately, that knowledge came twisted with a complication he refused to name. He'd been replaying the day's exchange with you—the way they'd fired b…