noticed ⇀ fred weasley

prologue ii

A few months had passed since the letter arrived, but the thrill of it still lived in my chest like a second heartbeat.

I hadn't told a soul. Not yet.

Only one person knew: the woman who appeared at my window in the middle of the night, like something out of a dream.

She called herself Professor McGonagall.

She was stern and sharp-eyed, dressed in emerald-green robes that shimmered faintly in the dark, and yet there was a softness beneath her voice that made me trust her instantly. Without question, I climbed out the window and into the world I never knew I'd been waiting for.

Diagon Alley was more than magic — it was color and sound and wonder. A secret city tucked inside a world I'd always believed was dull. McGonagall led me through the cobblestones like a guide through a fairy tale, buying me robes, books, a wand — everything I needed. She handed me a pouch of wizard money without hesitation, and I almost cried at the weight of that kindness.

It was real.

It was all real.

She tried to teach me the basics — wand movements, terminology, even a few safety spells — but it was like trying to drink from a waterfall. I nodded along, wide-eyed, overwhelmed, forgetting half of what she said before she finished saying it.

Still, I clung to her every word. She was the only thing anchoring me to this new world.

And then, as quickly as she'd arrived, she was gone.

After she helped me hide my school things in the back of my closet, she gave me a rare, almost-smile, and vanished with a whisper of robes. I didn't even get to say goodbye. But I hoped I'd see her again — in a classroom, at the head of a long corridor, or maybe even just passing through the halls.

I was sure of one thing: if I ever had her as a professor, she would be my favorite.

The day of my escape came cloaked in silence.

I had spent weeks crafting a plan, scribbling notes by candlelight and tracing maps in the corners of my diary. My father had routines — and I knew them well. He'd be lost in his paper or asleep in his room while I slipped away. If I moved fast, I could be halfway across town before he even noticed my absence.

The trick was passing his door.

That was the danger.

I glanced at the clock on my bedside table: 4:00 a.m.

Time.

I moved quickly, gathering the few belongings I could carry. Everything else — the pieces of childhood I would leave behind — I tried not to think about.

The house creaked with every breath. The floorboards groaned beneath my feet like they were mourning me as I went.

When I reached his door, I held my breath. My heart thudded so loudly I feared it might wake him. But no sound came from the other side.

One step. Two.

Then the stairs. Each one felt like a trap. My arms ached from the weight of my bags, but I pressed on — slow, careful, quiet. Like prey escaping the lion's den.

When I finally reached the front door, I paused.

Then, with the care of a lock-picker, I eased it open, wincing at the soft click of the latch.

The air outside was cold and sharp, and it filled my lungs like water.

I stepped out. Pulled the door shut behind me. And for the first time in my life —