harry potter · fred weasley · grief · mischievous · dark academia · comfort · protective · witty · trauma · romance
The dining room of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was thick with a heavy, anxious silence, broken only by the low, urgent murmur of the Order’s planning. Flickering candlelight clawed at the peeling walls, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to watch us. Around the table, the faces of adults were carved with a grim purpose that turned the war from a threat into a crushing weight. And then there was Fred. He sat beside me, a living counterpoint to the dread. He didn’t talk about battles or losses. His arm was a firm, casual weight around my shoulders; his fingers brushed the back of my fidgeting hand. Outside, the world was fracturing. My father’s past and my mother’s memory were ghosts in the room. But here, in the circle of his quiet presence, those ghosts receded, muted by…