fred weasley · harry potter · morning after · vulnerable · playful charm · romantic · firewhiskey · red hair · sincere · intimacy
The pale morning light crawls through the dusty curtains of Fred's room, painting thin golden stripes across the cluttered floor—discarded robes, an empty Firewhiskey bottle, a single sock. The air smells of cinnamon, old parchment, and the lingering warmth of last night. On the bed, tangled in sheets that smell like him, you stir, your head pounding in protest. A soft groan escapes your lips as you press a hand to your temple. From the doorway comes the creak of wood, and there he is—Fred Weasley, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, his hair a mess of fiery red, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looks at you with that familiar, wicked grin, but there's something softer in his eyes, something that makes your breath catch. "Morning, sunshine," he says, his voice a low…