Consequences Of Mischief: FRED WEASLEY ENEMIES TO LOVERS

When In Denial

In the grand tapestry of life, there comes a moment of delightful self-reflection, where everything—from the purpose of existence to the color of the sky—becomes a whimsical puzzle. For Morgan, this magical moment had arrived.

Oh, absolutely not. No chance I'm falling for Fred Weasley. 

Fred fucking Weasley

I can't stand him...

Well, as much as you can't stand someone you're stuck with!

The sudden spark Morgan felt for her least favorite Weasley seemed utterly baffling. Bathed in the warm sunlight, she sat up on her bed, pondering the recent escapades with Fred.

It had been the wee hours of the night; he had shown a rare vulnerability, a break from his usual cheeky demeanor. It was just the atmosphere, she told herself—an alignment of two downhearted teenagers at their lowest ebb; anyone could've caught the same bug.

But not him. Morgan reminded herself. How could he, when their entire lives had been a dance with conflict?

Taking a deep breath, Morgan rose from her bed, wrapping herself in her morning robe to stave off the morning chill. She was determined not to let this fleeting fancy interfere with her ten-year feud with the Weasley lad.

Fred Weasley was her sworn foe. Though not exactly evil, he was definitely not the kind of guy Morgan would ever be buddies with, let alone something more. Her aversion alone should be enough to keep her from repeating the silly sentiments of the night before.

Maybe those butterflies were just a case of indigestion? One thing Morgan knew for sure—no romantic feelings for Fred Weasley. Not in a million years.

As she headed to her room door, ready for a morning pick-me-up, she froze at the sight of Fred Weasley's door, wide open across from hers. There he was—shirtless, buttoning Quidditch trousers, and brushing his teeth simultaneously.

Morgan's breath caught, and she quickly shut the door, collapsing onto her bed.

The same warmth and fluttering from last night had reappeared in her stomach.

"Bother," she thought. This was turning out to be trickier than she had bargained for.

-

Morgan lay on her bed, feeling the warmth and fluttering sensations settle in her stomach like mischievous butterflies. She couldn't shake the enchanting image of Fred Weasley from her mind—the shirtless, tooth-brushing wizard who had, against all odds, managed to cast a spell on her hear-

NOPE.

Absolutely not.

I'm just... lonely, maybe a bit hormonal. Sure, he's attractive, I've always known that, but that doesn't mean I like him."

She sits up, meeting her reflection in the side dresser mirror.

"Okay, perhaps, just perhaps, there's a tiny, minuscule chance that I might actually like Fred Weasley," Morgan reluctantly admitted, confessing to her own reflection as if the mirrored image held the key to her innermost thoughts.

With newfound self-awareness, she took a moment to reflect on the absurdity of her situation. Here she was, vehemently denying any inkling of affection for Fred Weasley, only to find herself daydreaming about him in the most mundane of activities. Like come on, everybody brushes their teeth. Why... does she keep replaying the image of him doing it over and over.

Summoning her Gryffindor courage, Morgan decided to face the day head-on. She opened her bedroom door cautiously, half-expecting to find Fred still in the hallway, shirtless and casually nonchalant. Fortunately, the corridor was empty, and she let out a sigh of relief.