#fred weasley x reader

Warnings: Death, Sadness, Angst.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Words: 1.5k

Summary: Visiting the ghost that holds your heart.

(I’m aching as I type this.)

The corridors felt longer. It was harder to remember exactly how they were, but if you squinted long enough, you could remember the moments of laughter shared and the sound of students rushing to their next course of the day. But, those memories quickly evaporated into scenes of despair from the war. It had been a few years, five to be exact, since the war. Even with the time passing, you can remember the stench of metallic blood and the dust and debris that choked the air. 

It was the Winter session, all the students had since gone home, and the halls were empty besides the small straggle of children who had decided to stay. Children, kids, something you once were. Even with a small number of wrinkles on your brow and taller stature, you tried to put yourself into your sixteen-year-old self. It was admittedly hard as all your experiences, as a child, centered around him. Him. Fred. Your first love. Maybe your only love. 

The wind was bitter. And despite the cold quickly reaching your fingertips, your heels clicked slowly on the floor. One after another, you told yourself, until you reached the Northern Tower fields. You knew he’d be there. He always was. The familiar scent of frosted grass almost hurt to smell. It all hurt. As you reached the courtyard, the figure of a tall man stood. Even from the back, you knew it was him. His hands were shoved in his pockets, his red hair sticking widely everywhere and his back was slightly hunched. Until he turned. It was as if you were eleven years old again, seeing those bright brown eyes and the peak of his dimples. It rendered you speechless.

“You came.” He said a smile on his lips.

“Of course,” you sputtered out, taking in every inch of his face, his movements, his everything. “Wouldn’t miss out on our anniversary, would I?”

Fred let out a laugh. Oh, how you truly missed his laugh. 

“You’re right, you always were one for punctual anniversaries.” He joked. For a moment, he did the same, drinking in you, getting so hopelessly lost that he cursed the day he died.

“Aren’t you cold?” you found yourself dumbly asking. Of course, he didn’t get cold, what a foolish thing to ask.

Fred didn’t mind, he shrugged and replied “Hard to get cold when you’re dead.”

You didn’t say anything back. Instead, you sat on the cobble bench. It suddenly became hard to breathe.

“Don’t make that face,” Fred warned.

“What face?” you asked, surprised.

“The face of grief. I’ve seen it every day I’ve been ‘ere.”

“Oh.”

“I see it all over Ginny’s face, and some over George’s, but he tries to hide it now.”

“Why can’t I make that face?” you laughed helplessly, “I am grieving.”

“I know.” he said simply, “But, it isn’t a face I’ve ever wanted to see on you.”

“I know,” you said back. 

“How is George?” Fred asked, still standing, hands in his pockets. He didn’t want to ask that question, but he could tell when his twin lied.

“He’s good.”

“No, he’s not,” Fred rolled his eyes.

“No. He’s not.” you agreed, “I think… it’s been quite hard on him.”

“He always was the sensitive one,” Fred put a finger to his chin, you nearly laughed seeing that. It was always something he did when he was pretending to be pensive. It never worked.

“It’s been hard on all of us.”

“It’s been a few years.”

“Yes, but still,” you sighed. Hard wasn’t even a word to describe the feeling of losing Fred. It was beyond hard, it was excruciating. 

“I think…” Fred continued to carry a facade of deep thinking, “You should have a party.”

“A party?” your lips began to curl into a smile. 

“Well, you can’t all be sad all the time. What a bunch of sorry sods you must be.”

“Sorry sods?” you chuckled under your breath, “Maybe.”

“I’m just saying, if you had a party, you could mingle, and drink too much and be happy.” Fred said as a matter of factly.

“It’s difficult to be happy when you’re not there.”

Fred grew silent. Everyone always spoke about how difficult it is to move on after his death. But no one ever really asked him how he dealt with it. How he was. How he felt. It was always Fred’s job to make other’s smile, but as he walked the empty corridors he couldn’t have felt more alone. 

“You know,” you began, making Fred raise his eyebrow, “Ron’s started helping out ‘round the Joke Shop.”

“Really?” Fred leaned in.

You hummed, “I think he’s going to leave the Order.”

Fred laughed, full and hearty, “He’ll destroy the shop.”

“No, he won’t!” you argued back, laughing a bit with him. “He’s doing quite well, actually.”

“Tell me more.”

The conversation, once melancholy, was filled with jokes from Fred, poking fun at his younger brother and you defending him. You spoke about your family, Fred asked if your mother still makes the sweet pumpkin pie, the one she used to send every October. Fred told you about some of the first years, and how he truly enjoys giving them a fright by poking out of the portraits when they least expect it. It was as if he were there, and you had to remind yourself… that he wasn’t. 

“Are you seeing anyone?” Fred asked, almost absentmindedly. 

You paused. “Something like that.”

“Oh? Tell me more.” Fred bit back the sadness that knawed at his chest. He wanted you to move on, get married, have children, do all the things that he envisioned you’d do together. 

“He’s… well.”

“Well?” 

You looked up at Fred. It was this moment, this reflection of glee in his eyes and the redness of his cheeks that brought tears to your eyes. It wasn’t like the heart aching sobs that your parents heard through the walls of your home. It wasn’t like the tears you shared with Molly, reminiscing on every story of Fred you had. It was quiet. Droplets rolled down your cheeks, and you were worried they’d never stop as you were sure, for a fact, that you couldn’t contain them even if you tried. 

“He isn’t you.”

Words had never hurt Fred more. The pounding of the syllables and the quivering of your lip created a deep and sudden ache. Even as a ghost, a dead person, a being not of this world, he could feel the grief course through his veins, pumping through his heart, hitting his chest, hurting his toes. It’s true. It wasn’t him. And, for fucks sake, he wanted it to be. He didn’t want to die. He had just grown to accept it when he awoke as a ghost. He wanted to be there, holding you, gripping your hair in his fingers, feeling the warmth of your body. He wanted to get married and see you walk down the aisle in that dress you always fawned over. He wanted to see the silver band around his finger and feel him put your wedding ring on yours. He wanted to have children and argue about the names. He wanted to hold your child, making jokes about how they would one day ruin the world. He wanted to spend every Christmas morning, watching your numerous children ripping open the presents that “Father Christmas” had given them, as you sat in his lap enjoying a cup of hot chocolate. He wanted to warn his daughter, or daughters, about the bad men and how they should stay away from boys until they were thirty-five. He wanted to tell his boys always to make a girl smile because that’s how they will get a girl’s heart and boast about that’s how he got “your mother’s heart and soul.” He wanted to send his children off to Hogwarts, holding you as you cried watching the train leave the platform. He wanted to make fun of your growing wrinkles and he wanted you to fight back about his dad body. He wanted to live with you, grow old with you, die with you. Seeing you cry helpless tears was a bitter reminder that he was stuck. Stuck in a body that will never experience those things. Stuck in a body that is forced to do nothing but remain.

“Is he at least good-looking?” Fred choked back. 

You laughed through your tears and the loneliness that Fred had experienced was nearly worth it.

“Not as handsome as you, or as cocky,” you added.

Fred nodded slowly. He sat next to you, close, but not close enough. 

“I…” you wiped your cheeks with the sleeve of your coat. “I-” you meant to say that you missed him, but the words didn’t seem to follow your tongue.

“I know. Me too.” Fred smiled, his dimples portraying the sadness that he tried to hide. 

You sat there, next to him, painfully, sadly, both heartbroken for the life you could’ve had. Together.