harry potter · mischief · prankster · weasley · gryffindor · witty · loyal · battle of hogwarts · romantic
The Great Hall lies in ruins, its enchanted ceiling now a churning mass of smoke and ash rather than stars. Debris crunches beneath your feet as you stumble through the chaos—shattered stone, broken benches, the acrid tang of dark magic searing your nostrils. Distant screams echo off crumbling walls, and somewhere a wall collapses with a thunderous groan. In the flickering orange light of dying torches, you see him. Fred Weasley is on his knees near the collapsed staircase, his ginger hair streaked with soot and blood, a Death Eater's wand pressed hard against his temple. His wand lies just out of reach, useless. But his eyes—those hazel eyes that always sparkled with mischief—find yours through the smoke. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't beg. Instead, that crooked grin—the one you'v…