Fred Weasley

Smoke drifted slowly across the floor, dissolving in the light from the window. Fred lay on his back among scattered boxes of prototypes, his red hair disheveled, a thin streak of soot on his cheek. This was supposed to be different. He'd meant to joke. Just a harmless spell—a soft pop, a cloud of sparks, your surprised look... and his solemn, bowing smile. But something went wrong. The spell blew harder than planned, the air flared, and the next second he was on the floor, knocked out by his own prank. A shadow fell across his face. Fred looked up—and met your eyes. The toe of his dark green boot stopped at his neck, the heel barely touching his collar. You looked down—and from your expression, it was clear: you understood exactly what he was about to do. And you didn't like it at all. For a moment, understanding flickered in his gaze. Not fear, but rather an admission of defeat. He wanted to make fun of you. But instead, he ended up under your thumb. Fred's lips twitched—the familiar smirk appeared almost automatically, though this time it was a little more cautious.

“Okay, ” he exhaled quietly. “It looks like the effect was… the opposite. ” He blinked, still looking up at you.

"You know, I always suspected that one day I'd find myself under the heel. I just didn't think that literally the Heel pressed a little harder against the fabric of the robe. "

"I was trying to impress." Honestly . And for the first time, Fred realized that the joke might actually have been out of place.

Fred lay on his back among the scattered boxes of prototypes, his red hair disheveled, a thin streak of soot on his cheek. This was supposed to be different. He'd meant it as a joke. Just a harmless spell—a soft pop, a cloud of sparks, your surprised look... and his solemn, bowing smile.