tongue tied

request from anon: Asgfaafhjlkfsdgj I loved your George x reader where they’re shy and flustered it’s so cute!!!! Could you write one with a similar shy reader but with Fred? Accept Fred’s just extra loud and funny when around her to impress her?

pairing: fred x gryffindor fem!reader

word count: 4.9k yikes

A/N: I LOVE FRED AND GEORGE WITH FLUSTERED READERS, GAAAAD, i’m sort of emotional, if you can’t already tell—also, i’m allowed to make fun of choir geeks because i, too, am a choir geek and know precisely just how dorky it is

tag list: @mintlibri @seppys-return-to-madness @how-do-life-does @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @semmelsemi @bobduncanlover @cottageoflove @laneygthememequeen @snakesonaplane-7 @lupinsx @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove | message me if you’d like to be added my loves

Fred Weasley normally doesn’t even try this hard to impress someone—or anyone, for that matter.

But as of late, he’s been racking his brain and planning some over-the-top prank only to catch your attention—the shy, sweet Gryffindor girl who seems to have caught his eye when he found you, late one evening, sneaking out of the portrait hole in the common room.

“Where’re you off too this late?” he asked cheekily. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

You thought about this, not sure if you should respond, but then decided it’d be best to just tell him the truth—guys like him would do their best to find out, anyway. His heart soared when he realized that you already knew a bit about him, “You’re not the only one who sneaks to the kitchens to grab a late night snack.”

He’d always found you pretty; perhaps, maybe you were the prettiest girl Gryffindor had even seen. And now, knowing that the pretty girl in Gryffindor tower also tends to break the rules from time to time, he finds himself head over heels.

Since that moment, he’s been focused on one thing and one thing only—get you to notice him. Or, at least, get you two talking.

But why is it, he asks himself, that the one time he wants to impress you with some type of outrageous ordeal, it’s the one he gets caught doing? Although, he admits to his twin later that evening, replacing some classroom entrances with biting doorknobs in the hopes that Malfoy or one of his cronies gets their fingers sliced off was probably going a little bit too far—especially when Filch is on the receiving end of it. Even George can agree on that.

McGonagall grabs a fistful of Fred’s robes and pushes him toward the stairs with George on her other side. “You’ve given me no choice, Mr. Weasley. My office, Saturday morning—detention.”

“C’mon, Professor—” Fred says, craning his neck over the crowd to try and find you, “We were just having a laugh—we would’ve stopped someone anyway before it got too far, promise!”

The Headmistress cocks her head to the side and folds her arms across her chest. “Saturday, the both of you.”

The crowd begins to roar with raucous laughter as Fred and George bask in all their glory on the staircase, fellow Gryffindors and students from other houses cheering for them despite their upcoming weekend in detention. And then he sees you—pressed against the wall near the entrance of the Great Hall, standing beside some statue, trying not to be noticed, but watching the both of them with—is it admiration, or confusion, perhaps? He just hopes it isn’t disgust. Fred can’t read your expression over the crowd, and it’s killing him. The students begin to disperse, and when he finally makes his way through the sea of people to where you’re standing, you’re already gone.

He finds himself worried now, which is, to say the least, very unlike him. Fred Weasley? Worried? The word isn’t even in his day to day vernacular. But has this very funny—albeit, sort of stupid—prank gone over the top? Was it a bit too much? Has he scared away the shy girl he was trying so desperately to pursue, and he didn’t stop to think about his actions?

He follows his twin begrudgingly back to class.

“You two really could’ve caused severe damage,” Hermione tells them later at the feast, “people have gone to St. Mungo’s for treatment after being on the receiving end of a biting doorknob! You’re lucky McGonagall only gave you—”

“Oi, give it a rest, Hermione,” Ron says and she turns a bright shade of pink, “they were only having a laugh, weren’t they?”

Fred slumps back in his seat, picking at the food on his plate. “Who’s idea was this, anyway?” Ginny pipes up.

George, Ron, and Harry all turn to look at Fred, who grins at them cheekily and says, “Yeah, yeah—not one of my brighter ideas,”

Ginny smacks Fred playfully with her book. “What on earth—”

“He’s got a crush to impress.”

Fred shoots a look at his twin, who’s cackling in between bites of a cauldron cake, when Ron, Ginny, Harry, and Hermione all peer at Fred quizzically. George nods in the direction of you, sitting at the end of the Gryffindor table with a few fellow friends, laughing slightly over something in someone’s notebook.

“No way,” Ron laughs haughtily, coughing a bit on a piece of half-chewed tart, “Y/N? She’s the exact complete opposite of you.”

Fred digests this. “Meaning?”

“Well, for starters, she’s not a complete git—”

When the boys fall into a fit, Fred flicks some food at the three of them, casually placing his hands behind his head, as if this is going to help relax him. It doesn’t. “Well opposites attract, don’t they, Ronniekins?”

Skittishly, Ron steals a glance at Hermione, who has seemingly chosen to ignore the conversation, as she is now immersed in her spellbook in front of her. Ron falls very silent and turns a bright shade of red, resembling that of a tomato, as he sinks into his seat.

“Besides,” Fred tells the group, taking a long sip of his pumpkin juice, “we’ve got more in common than you think.”

Harry laughs when George says, “Do tell us.”

“Y/N likes to cause a stir now and again. Bend the rules a bit.”

“And how,” Ginny begins inquiringly, trying her best to hide her interest, “d’you know this?”

Fred pauses and considers this for a moment. He reckons that you probably won’t be the most happy to know that there are other Gryffindors besides him that have learned of your late night sneak outs to the kitchens. He decides to keep it to himself. “I have my ways.”

“Well, good luck, mate,” Ron says, color flooding his face, “because the likeliness of you two snogging in a corner somewhere is about as likely as you and George becoming Prefects.”

The table roars with laughter, and Fred notices you turn your head, along with other students, to see, again, what all the ruckus is about. As his friends continue to cackle maniacally, Fred’s eyes meet yours, and he freezes. It’s a very fleeting moment before your eyes are darting toward the food in front of you, trying to avoid any and all eye contact. But when you look up again, Fred’s still peering at you. You furrow your brow slightly, and then send him a soft smile from across the way.

His heart is hammering in his chest, but he sends a smile back, as well.

Okay, so he hasn’t completely lost his chances—not yet, anyway. You’re not completely repulsed by the boy who lands himself in detention more often than not, even if his latest prank was one of the most reckless he’s ever pulled. Fred snaps back to reality when George is teasingly pinching his cheeks, and Harry’s shaking his shoulders. “Oh shove off, you lot,” he replies as the hysteria finally dies down. He swears he sees you glance over at him again.

The steps up to the Owlery are slippery because of the light snow dusting Hogwarts awoke too, but it doesn’t stop Fred from flying up there to send a letter to his brother in Romania.

To his surprise, though, he catches you at the top, hastily writing a name on a bit of parchment, and it’s probably the thickest letter he’s ever seen.

“Oh,” he says, taken aback by your presence, “sorry—didn’t realize anyone else was up here,”

“No worry,” you reply with a shy smile, handing the letter to your owl and patting him softly before he takes off, blending in with the snow covered grounds.

With the realization that his friends are far away in the castle and would have no chance to tease him about his flushed face when he sees you, Fred seizes this opportunity of alone time together. “Quite a long letter you’ve written.”

You turn to look at him as you swing your bag over your shoulder, kind of shocked that he’d noticed the length of a letter not meant for him. “Oh—erm—yes, I do tend to ramble on quite a bit when writing to loved ones,”

Fred feels his insides tighten, and why his mind immediately goes to boyfriend, he doesn’t know—but he hates it. You continue before he can ask anything, “I’m Muggleborn, you see.”

Fred did not know this. His eyes pop open in admiration, and he’s excited that he’s finally learning more about you.

“I’m sure your family has lots of questions.”

“My mum, yes,” you reply, nodding your head in agreement, “she just likes weekly updates, you know, to make sure classes are going well, I’m staying safe—that I haven’t been.. eaten by a dragon, or anything.”

Fred laughs at this, taking you by surprise. He runs a hand through his hair and tells you, “Something all Muggle parents should worry about, of course.”

“Of course,” you bite your lip, pausing to consider the conversation. After a moment, you continue, “However—if you’re going to go, getting eaten by a dragon is probably the most wicked, d’you reckon?”

When he wandered up to the Owlery that afternoon and spotted you, discussing being eaten alive by dragons was not exactly how he expected the conversation to go. But he took it. He was talking to you, anyway. He replies, “I mean—can’t be any less exciting than being pummeled by the Whomping Willow,”

A laugh escapes your lips, and it’s sweet as sugar, as far as Fred is concerned. He can feel his entire body go numb at the sound of it.

You nervously tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and say to him, “Hope McGonagall isn’t giving you and your brother that hard of a time in detention.”

Fred feels his face flush red, but—it’s not like the entire bloody school hadn’t seen them get scolded, right? But hearing you say it, recognize it—it makes his entire body tense up.

“Oh, you—you saw that, did you?”

“Think the entire school did, I’m afraid.” You both pause, taking this in, and Fred laughs nervously. “But, hey—it’s not like anyone got hurt, right?”

“Right,” he replies, finally remembering the letter he needs to send. He places it into the beak of a barn owl, who hoots appreciatively and flies off into the sky. “I suppose we’re used to it, and I reckon McGonagall is, too.”

You peer down at your shoes, doing your best to try and suppress quite a large grin, and Fred notices this. You both make your way down from the Owlery, not speaking, but the silence is comfortable, and Fred graciously offers you his hand when you nearly slip on the way down. Gratefully, you take it, and he’s pretty sure his heart stops beating for a moment. When you both enter the castle, he has to stop himself from melting in front of you when you remove your hat and gloves, noticing the pinky-gold color of the tips of your ears and nose. He’s brought back to reality when he hears a cackle from the Great Hall.

“Well,” you tell him, removing your coat and slinging it over your shoulder, “was nice chatting with you,”

Fred is sad your time together for the day is coming to an end, but he reckons it’s enough to get him through until you undoubtedly bump into one another later in the common room, “Yeah, it was—maybe next time you can tell me some other things Muggle parents worry about when it comes to the Wizarding world.”

Without skipping a beat, you reply, “Like getting fingers bitten off by a biting doorknob,”

He furrows his brow and laughs slightly, unable to read your expression until you, too, giggle sweetly. He swallows thickly before you say, “Well—have a g’night, Fred.”

“You, too.”

He doesn’t even care if you catch him watching you—he can’t help but keep his eyes on you as you walk swiftly up the steps, until you disappear from his sight completely.

His heart is still hammering in his chest when he thinks of your hand wrapped inside of his, and he can hardly focus on all of the questions coming his way from his siblings. Physically, he’s seated in the Great Hall, his chin resting on his hand, a slight glaze over his eyes—but his heart and mind have followed you all the way back to the Gryffindor common room.

Fred is absolutely loving all of the free periods he’s getting this term as he watches all of the younger students speed off hurriedly to their next glasses. He and George stand together, nothing but free time in front of them, when Ron comes trudging down the corridor with a glazed look on his face, Harry and Hermione on either side of him. No doubt coming straight from Divination.

Hermione waves quickly before heading off in a different direction, when Ron and Harry bump into the twins and lean against the wall. “Bloody hell, that woman drains me,”

“Your choice to take Divination, mate,” George says and pats his younger brother on the shoulder, “could’ve told you you’re out of your bloody mind.”

“Where’re you two off to, then?” Harry asks.

“Free period,” the twins chorus together, and both Ron and Harry grunt miserably. Fred continues, “Have some plans up our sleeves—reckon a bit of mischief this afternoon would do us some good, eh, Georgie?”

But before George can answer, Harry elbows Fred a little bit harder than expected, and before Fred can yell out in pain, Ron nods toward the other end of the corridor. Fred turns around, and the pain in his ribcage is flooded by nerves—he’s not sure which he’d rather have, to be honest—but he spots you, chatting up a Ravenclaw, a pile of books in your hands. All pain seems to subside at the sight of your toothy smile.

“On second thought..” Fred says to nobody in particular, leaving the boys behind as he hastily makes his way through the crowd, running on not much other than coffee and adrenaline. “Hey, Y/N!”

You turn toward him, surprised to see him clambering his way through fellow students in order to get to you. “Hi, Fred,” you say brightly, reaching out to fix his askew tie, and he’s pretty sure that the entire world can hear his heart pounding. You realize what you’re doing, and quickly retreat, looking around the corridors as if the sheer fact of you brushing your hands against Fred Weasley’s clothes will kill you with embarrassment. He can’t help but grin goofily at your nervous state.

“How are you? No dragons today?”

You bite down a smile, and Fred knows he’s said the right thing. “No—not today. Though I daresay I narrowly escaped one in the girls lavatory before.”

“So that’s where they’re hidden,” he replies, elated beyond belief to hear that laugh of yours again. The unmistakable sound of mock laughter from his friends bounces off the walls as they walk past you both—albeit, rather lethargically.

Fred rolls his eyes before sticking a hand out, as if he’s displaying them, “My lovely brothers,”

George, Ron, and Harry all introduce themselves to you before George begins, much to Fred’s dismay, “Might I just say, Y/N, that the effect you have on him is wonderfully entertaining, if not comical—”

He’s cut off by a sharp blow to his shin, but he laughs through gritted teeth. You grin inquiringly, “And.. what kind of effect is this exactly?” you ask Fred, who opens his mouth to speak, but sputters.

“Oh—erm—nothing? I mean—they’re just having a bit of a.. a laugh,” he tells you, suddenly feeling incredibly uncomfortable in his own skin, and this annoys him beyond belief. Maybe it’s because he’s worried his twin will spill his guts, or maybe it’s due to the fact that Ron and Harry are now admiring your beauty too, or maybe it’s because he’s afraid the mere expression on his face will tell you everything you need to know.

“Now you’ve got him tongue tied!” Ron calls to you from the end of the corridor, where the boys are now disappearing. “Fred Weasley.. tongue tied.. the bloke who can never shut the hell up, who’d’ve thought it?” Their voices float for a moment between you both, until the bustling sounds of other students drowns it out.

Fred kicks at the ground, nerves engulfing him, as you wait with baited breath for whatever he’s about to say. “Sorry about them,” he tells you as he slams his hands into his pockets, “they’re a bunch of gits..” Looking to change the subject as quickly as possible, he asks you, “So—you free for a stroll?”

Thankfully, it seems to Fred as though you’ve forgotten all about his brothers’ snide comments. To his dismay, however, you reply begrudgingly with a twinge of guilt to your voice, “Oh, I’m sorry, Fred, unfortunately—have got double Transfiguration—but I’m now second guessing my choices of why I signed up for this in the first place..” Your voice drifts off and Fred feels as though he’s forcing himself to hear more, he wants to hear your voice more, “See you soon? Stay out of trouble.”

You raise a hand to him and continue down the emptying corridor, and he watches you enter McGonagall’s classroom. The Deputy Head is standing on the opposite side of the hall, chatting animatedly with Professor Flitwick before heading inside to begin her lesson. Suddenly, a weird feeling floods through Fred’s body—is he actually thinking—? No, he couldn’t be, he has a free period now, and why would he give that up?

Yet, he finds his legs carrying him across the hall and his mouth is sputtering out words to McGonagall before he can barely even register what he’s doing.

“You look like death.”

Fred slumps into an armchair in the common room, barely able to keep his eyes open, and chucks a throw pillow at Ron. “Thanks, mate,”

George sits down beside his twin. “Where’ve you been? You ran off and we haven’t seen you since!”

“Double Transfiguration,” Fred says sleepily, resting his head on the side of the chair, and not opening his eyes.

“Double Transfiguration?” Harry and Ron say together. “Since when d’you take Double Transfiguration?”

When Fred opens his eyes, he can already tell they probably look incredibly bloodshot. Next to him, George is grinning at him cheekily.

“Look at you,” George begins mockingly, his eyes narrow slits due to his suppressed laughter, “taking up extra classes just to spend time with this girl.”

The unmistakable sound of Harry snorting bounces off of the walls. “Blimey, there’s not enough gold in the world—you’re off your rocker, Fred.”

“Have you two even kissed yet?”

“No, Ronald,” Fred replies a bit angrily, “we haven’t. Not that it’s any of your business, but—‘m taking my time. Don’t want to push her into anything. I’m still trying to feel it out. This isn’t something you can rush into, lads. Reckon I’ll get her in the end.”

“In your dreams,” Ron says quietly through gritted teeth, and he’s stunned when he receives a thick whack! to his head from his older brother.

But Fred doesn’t care what they think. Even in his delirious state, all he can remember is the twinkle in your eye when he slid in the seat next to yours after McGonagall gave him the go ahead to enroll in her afternoon classes. All he can think about is the confused, flustered smile you gave him when he said, ‘Hi there, darling,’ as he opened his textbook and McGonagall began her lesson. And all that’s flooding through his head, now, as you climb through the portrait hole looking incredibly elated, is the amount of times he caught you, not paying attention to the lesson in front of you, but instead peering at him with dazed eyes and a lazy grin.

It’s strange to see the Great Hall so empty, with the exception of just a few students. He’s going to be so easily caught if he’s found. Fred is already sort of regretting this plan.

Until he spots you, that is.

When you walk into the Great Hall, he’s thrown off by seeing you in jeans and a blouse instead of your school robes—something he’s never noticed before, since you normally spend your weekends in quiet sanctuaries, and he’s off creating some sort of chaotic mischief.

“Hey,” he says brightly, bumping gently into you.

You shoot glances in every direction. “Fred,” you whisper, confused, eyes shifty, “what are you doing here?”

“Just joining you for the afternoon.”

He’s feeling confident today. The norm. You fold your arms across your chest and ask him, “Oh really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“And what part do you sing?”

Fred hadn’t really thought this through. When he found out you were a member of the choir, his first thought was that choir is pretty much the dorkiest thing anyone could be a part of, and then he thought—if your singing voice is as beautiful as your laugh, he was in for quite an adventure.

“Erm—you know,” he trips over his words, slamming his hands into his pockets, “the—alto.. tenor—been singing since I was little.”

You nod sarcastically and bite your lip and make your way toward the front, where the rest of the choir is now congregating. The other members eye him conspicuously.

“Um, Y/N,” a Slytherin girl calls over to you, looking rather peeved off, “what’s he doing here?”

You fidget uncomfortably in your seat. “He’s—just—joking, it’s alright, Lena, lay off,”

Fred snorts embarrassingly and peers over your shoulder at your sheet music.

When Professor Flitwick walks in, Fred scrunches next to you, trying not to let his very tall frame and bright red hair stand out. So far, so good. He bites down a grin when he notices the nervous twitch of your eyes. It’s just about the cutest thing he’s ever seen. Then you turn toward him and whisper through gritted teeth, “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Just want to spend some more time with you,”

“And Double Transfiguration isn’t enough of a fill for you?”

“Can’t help myself.”

“You’re ridiculous, you are.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love my company.”

“Well—you certainly don’t make it very bloody difficult, do you?”

You look back down at your sheet music, fighting a smile, and Fred notices your cheeks turn a bright shade of pink.

Professor Flitwick taps his baton on his music stand and fixes his glasses before raising his hands to conduct. His squeaky voice echoes throughout the nearly empty Great Hall, “Let’s start with some warmups, shall we?”

And Fred’s right—your soft soprano range nearly has him melting into a puddle right next to you. He opens his mouth to belt out some obnoxious, offkey note, but is taken fully by surprise—you’ve actually left him silent. He can’t seem to find the words.

You turn toward him, furrowing your brow and stopping your vocal runs at once. Tentatively, you ask him, “What?”

Fred can feel his insides tighten at your gaze; Flitwick is saying something, but he doesn’t listen—he’s drowning in your eyes, your soft silky voice washing over him like a cool tide. He blinks. “N-nothing,” he begins sheepishly, clearing his throat, “—you’re going to leave me speechless, you are.”

“Weasley!”

Both of you jump at the sound of his name; Fred’s hand immediately grabs at your knee, and before he can even process what’s happening, he’s standing up amidst the students, still silent and sort of, well, flustered.

“What’re you doing here? You’re not in the choir.”

“Sorry, Professor,” Fred says as he removes himself from the congregated group, bouncing toward Flitwick. He places a hand on the back of his neck and says awkwardly, “Just had to come and see the most beautiful girl.”

The choir coos, and Fred is delighted to see that you’re still grinning like mad despite all of the eyes on you. You shake your head slowly, peering up at him over the top of your sheet music. Professor Flitwick squeaks, “Ah—yes, yes, we all adore a good love story, Mr. Weasley, but if you don’t mind, we’ve got a rehearsal to get to!”

“Yes, sir,” Fred replies, saluting his professor before making his way toward the exit of the Great Hall. And then, in a loud, sing-songy proclamation, a “Yes, siiir!” escapes his lips in an off key, pitchy, albeit—weirdly adorable—note.

And once more before he leaves completely, he spins around, instantly spotting you in the mess of the choir, not at all able to focus on the vocal runs Professor Flitwick has asked you to practice as a warmup. You’re still trying your best not to meet his gaze, but the tension is rising and eventually you lift your head, your eyes meeting with his, and he winks before vanishing in the corridor.

Fred is very, very nervous. Not only is the team playing Slytherin today, but you’re also in the stands. Watching. Spectating. Expecting something great, he presumes.

He knows this because of your prior conversation the two of you held in Transfiguration the day before.

“We’ve got it in the bag.”

“Slytherin’s got a good lineup this year.”

“Yeah, but Gryffindor’s better.”

That smile. Your damn smile. “Okay—impress me, then.”

He’s feeling particularly less confident than he ever has before, and he’s busy bouncing his feet up and down on the carpet as he tosses his broomstick between his hands. He didn’t eat breakfast. He’s running purely on caffeine and nerves alone.

The rest of the team meets up in the common room before heading down to the pitch. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny are all there, as well.

“What’s the matter with you?” Ginny asks him.

George slings an arm around his twin and answers for him, “Nerves.”

“Nerves?” Ron and Hermione chorus together. “Can you even properly feel nervous—you? Is that even.. possible?”

Fred shrugs his brother off of him as they begin to chuckle lightly. Then Ginny prods, “Cat got your tongue, Fred?”

He shrugs and kicks at the carpet.

It’s the first time in, well, forever, that Fred Weasley cannot seem to find the words to say.

“Merlin’s beard,” Ron says suddenly, a lightbulb going off in his head, “she’s left you.. speechless.”

“Has Freddie finally found a girl that actually makes him anxious?”

Their teasing and jokes don’t do anything to help him, and he’s finding it hard to sit still. Finally, Angelina leads the way to the pitch, and the cheers erupting from the stands send chills down Fred’s spine—you’re there, you have to be, right? Angelina elbows him curiously, “Dunno what’s going on with you and this girl—” she raises her eyebrows mockingly, “—but please, for Merlin’s sake, don’t let it affect your playing today, yeah?”

Great, thanks, no pressure at all, he thinks as he runs a hand nervously through his hair. To his left, he sees George, who rolls his eyes as if to say, Ignore her, and this helps Fred regain a little bit of his confidence.

During warmups, though, as the team flies aimlessly around the pitch and tosses the quaffle back and forth, Fred looks absolutely wrecked, and cannot seem to focus on anything except you—seated in between his sister and other fellow Gryffindors, your scarf wrapped tightly around your neck, your hands absentmindedly tapping against your knees, waiting for the match to begin.

All the players are hovering in the air, Fred can feel his teeth chittering, Malfoy is making some stupid joke about Harry, and Madam Hooch is walking out toward the middle of the pitch, just moments before the match is to finally begin.

But Fred, thoughts elsewhere, just needs to do it already, he reckons. He flies toward the Gryffindor section, his sister and teammates eyeing him suspiciously, and lands in the middle of the crowd—desperately searching the sea of eyes before him, but not finding the familiar pair he’s looking for.

And then he finds you.

And he’s fighting his way through spectators left and right, while the rest of his team calls to him from the pitch to hurry up, the match is about to begin, when he finally gets to you and places his hands on your shoulders.

It seems as though you’re saying this to him for the millionth time, but he doesn’t care. Your eyes flutter back and forth between him and the pitch, “Fred,” you begin softly, “what’re you doing?”

“Something I should’ve done a long time ago,” he replies breathlessly.

And he cups your chin in his hands and pulls you closer toward him, pressing his lips gently to yours. And there it is. Fireworks.

He can feel your shock against him, and he’s finding it hard to not smile completely against your lips. It’s slow and easy and warm, the way the tide feels after having swam all day—muscles de-tensing, body limp. He can feel your eyelashes brush against his cheekbones, your fingertips brush his hips. And slowly, very slowly, he pulls away, hovering for a moment before breaking completely.

This time, you’re the one who’s left speechless.

You know, the funny thing, Fred wants to tell everyone, is that when a kiss comes at the right time from the right girl, it can lighten the entire mood of the atmosphere, change your outlook on life—things of the like. It sounds dramatic in his mind, but he doesn’t care.

Interrupting the stillness between you both is a quick whack! to his head from the Quidditch referee, obviously annoyed at the delay in the beginning of the match. Fred rubs his head in the spot where it’s stinging and glances at you before erupting into laughter—there’s that nervousness again, the skittishness, your shy self shining through with rosy cheeks.

“Wait for me,” his lips brush against your ear.

You swallow thickly over a lump in your throat, listening intently. “What d’you mean?”

“Next time you sneak out,” he smiles at you, remembering that late night in the common room all those months ago, confidence now engulfing him yet again. “I reckon we’d have a bit of fun if I accompany you, yeah?”