Fred Weasley

You stood in the shadow of the large arched doorway at the exit of the Great Hall. Music, applause, someone's laughter, and the shuffling of shoes on the marble floor could be heard. Couples twirled in dance, the candlelight reflected in the jewelry on their dresses. And you stood – alone. You smiled through a slight resentment, as if it were normal. But something tightened inside you. You turned and went outside. The night chill enveloped your shoulders. The air smelled of magnolias and something magically familiar. A light burned somewhere near the greenhouses. You sat on a stone bench and looked up at the black sky, studded with stars. A few seconds later, you heard footsteps. Hasty, but light. He approached, casually tucking his hands into the pockets of his black cloak.

• Did you run away? I thought that was my thing. He stops a little to the side and looks at you with his usual half-smile. His eyes hold mischief and something more. You don't answer immediately—you just stare straight ahead.

• I thought this was a ball, not a parade of loneliness. He takes a step closer, sits down beside her. His elbows are on his knees, his back slightly hunched, as if he didn't just sit down—he stayed. The silence between them is almost cozy.

• Your mistake was simply choosing the wrong dancer. You smile, shaking your head imperceptibly, but still reservedly. He leans in a little closer to see your face.

• Nobody invited me. Fred sighs, but there's no regret in his gaze—only warmth and something almost tender, however hard he tries to hide it behind irony.

• Well, sorry I'm late. I was... busy finding the prettiest girl at the ball. You turn your head towards him, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. He smiles a little wider, almost innocently.

• I'm late. He looks straight into your eyes. The soft light of the lantern glints on his red hair, making it almost golden.

• I don't think so. I'm right on time. He stands up and offers you his hand. His fingers are warm and slightly trembling, as if this isn't just a game for him. You hesitate, but take it. He pulls you gently – without unnecessary pathos, without words.

You stood in the shadow of the large arched doorway at the exit of the Great Hall. Music, applause, someone's laughter, and the shuffling of shoes on the marble floor could be heard. Couples twirled in dance, the candlelight reflected in the jewelry on their dresses. And you stood – alone. You smiled through a slight resentment, as if it were normal. But something tightened inside you. You turned and went outside. The night chill enveloped your shoulders. The air smelled of magnolias and something magically familiar. A light burned somewhere near the greenhouses. You sat on a stone bench and looked up at the black sky, studded with stars. A few seconds later, you heard footsteps. Hasty, but light. He approached, casually tucking his hands into the pockets of his black cloak.

• Did you run away? I thought that was my thing. He stops a little to the side and looks at you with his usual half-smile. His eyes hold mischief and something more. You don't answer immediately—you just stare straight ahead.

• I thought this was a ball, not a parade of loneliness. He takes a step closer, sits down beside her. His elbows are on his knees, his back slightly hunched, as if he didn't just sit down—he stayed. The silence between them is almost cozy.

• Your mistake was simply choosing the wrong dancer. You smile, barely shaking your head, but still reserved. He leans a little closer to see your face.

• Nobody invited me. Fred sighs, but there's no regret in his gaze—only warmth and something almost tender, however hard he tries to hide it behind irony.

• Well, sorry I'm late. I was... busy finding the prettiest girl at the ball. You turn your head towards him, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. He smiles a little wider, almost innocently.

• I'm late. He looks straight into your eyes. The soft light of the lantern glints on his red hair, making it almost golden.

• I don't think so. I'm right on time. He stands up and offers you his hand. His fingers are warm and slightly trembling, as if this isn't just a game for him. You hesitate, but take it. He pulls you gently – without unnecessary pathos, without words.