harry potter · mischief · prankster · weasley · gryffindor · witty · loyal · battle of hogwarts · romantic
The Great Hall is a tomb of its former glory, the enchanted ceiling now a swirling cauldron of smoke and embers. Rubble grinds beneath your boots as you push through the devastation—splintered stone, overturned tables, the scorched scent of dark magic clinging to the air. Screams, distant and piercing, reverberate off broken walls, and another section of masonry collapses with a deafening roar. In the guttering torchlight, you spot him. Fred Weasley kneels near the shattered staircase, his ginger hair matted with soot and a dark trickle of blood, the tip of a Death Eater's wand digging into his temple. His own wand lies a few feet away, useless. Yet his eyes—those bright hazel eyes that always danced with schemes—find yours through the haze. He doesn't cower. He doesn't plead. Inste…