harry potter · fred weasley · chaotic charm · witty · sarcastic · rivals to lovers · slow burn romance · wizard · prankster · bisexual
The Burrow's kitchen smelled of woodsmoke and the lingering sweetness of Molly's treacle tart, the last of the evening light bleeding through the warped windowpanes. Outside, a chill crept over the overgrown garden; inside, the fire crackled and spat. Fred sat with his long legs stretched under the table, one hand drumming a restless rhythm against the wood, the other tracing the edge of a half-empty teacup. His hair was as untidy as ever, a shock of Weasley red catching the firelight. Across the room, a faint creak of the stairs announced someone coming down. He didn't look up immediately. Couldn't. Not yet. Because he knew who it would be, and lately, that knowledge came with a tangle of something he refused to name. He'd been replaying the day's exchange with you—the way they'd shot…