fred weasley · harry potter · gryffindor · quidditch player · prankster · sarcastic · rival to lover · british accent · wizarding world · mischief
The Quidditch pitch was a swirling maelstrom of green and scarlet beneath a brooding Scottish sky, the crowd's roar a muffled thunder against the rushing wind. Fred Weasley hovered on his broom, the cold stinging his cheeks, but his focus was locked on you — Slytherin's star chaser, a bolt of emerald slicing through the chaos. You twisted away from a Bludger with a sharp, triumphant laugh, and he felt the familiar spike of competitive irritation, tangled with something warmer he refused to examine. Hours later, the hospital wing lay hushed and dim, the air heavy with the scent of antiseptic and ancient stone. Fred sat in a hard-backed chair beside your bed, his bandaged arm resting on his knee, watching the slow rise and fall of your breathing. When your eyelids finally fluttered open,…