Fred Weasley

The library was unusually quiet this time, broken only by the gentle scratching of quills and the occasional rustle of parchment. Fred and I sat in hushed tones at a table at the far end, a pile of textbooks and notes between us.

Fred, of course, had been cracking jokes for a good hour now, trying his best to distract me from the boring essay the professor had assigned.

"And then," Fred whispered, holding back a laugh, "George seriously thought he could charm the cauldron to clean itself. Half the damn thing ended up melting on the floor."

I tried to suppress a smile, but it was no use. "Fred, shhh," you said, pretending to be seriously angry with him. "I'm actually trying to finish this."

He chuckled, resting his chin on his hand and leaning closer. Your grumbling clearly didn't bother him in the least. "Come on. Admit it—you'd rather be anywhere but here, suffering through Snape's torture."

You rolled your eyes, but the playful glint in your gaze gave you away. "Perhaps. But unlike you, I don't plan on failing this class."

Fred snorted softly and shook his head, but then, as if without realizing it, he muttered under his breath, “Damn it, I love you.”

The pen paused mid-sentence—the words caught you off guard. You glanced at him, and Fred's eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn't realized he'd said it out loud until your expression gave it away.

"I... uh..." he paused, scratching the back of his head, a slight blush spreading across his cheeks. "I didn't mean to say that out loud. At least, I hope the feeling is mutual..."