𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐔𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒 | f. w

19.

The days that followed the publication of Rita Skeeter's damning article were a blur of anguish and desperation. Each morning brought with it a renewed resolve to make things right, to mend the fractured relationships that had once meant everything to me. But despite my best efforts, it seemed that every step I took only pushed me further away from the people I cared about most.

Fred, in particular, had become an elusive figure in my life, slipping through my fingers whenever I tried to approach him. I would catch glimpses of him in the shop, his red hair a fiery beacon in the crowd, but he always seemed to vanish before I could muster the courage to speak to him. And when I did manage to corner him, his eyes would dart away, his responses short and clipped as he made his excuses and hurried off, leaving me standing alone in his wake.

It was George who finally confirmed what I had feared most. "Fred doesn't want to see you, Anaïs," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "He's... he's not ready to talk about it."

The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs as I struggled to comprehend the depth of Fred's pain. I had thought that if I could just explain, if I could just make him understand how sorry I was, then maybe, just maybe, we could find a way to move past this. But his rejection left me feeling hollow, as if the ground had been ripped out from beneath my feet.

I tried to reach out to him, to send messages and letters pouring out my heart, but they went unanswered, lost in the void of his silence. And with each unanswered plea, the chasm between us seemed to widen, until it felt as if we were on opposite ends of the universe, separated by an insurmountable distance.

George, too, seemed to be slipping away, his once-friendly demeanor replaced by a guarded wariness whenever our paths crossed. I could see the pain in his eyes, the hurt and betrayal that I had caused, and it cut me to the core. I wanted so desperately to make things right, to turn back the clock and erase the words that had torn us apart, but I knew that I could never undo the damage that had been done.

And so, I found myself adrift once again, lost in a sea of regret and despair. The people I had once held closest to my heart had become strangers, their faces twisted with anger and disappointment whenever they looked at me. And as I watched them slip further and further away, I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever find my way back to them again.

(...)

As the days stretched on, each one heavier than the last with the weight of regret and longing, I knew that something had to change. I couldn't continue to live in this state of limbo, trapped in a cycle of silence and avoidance. If Fred wouldn't come to me, then I would have to take matters into my own hands.

The opportunity presented itself one evening as I passed by Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes on my way home. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across Diagon Alley as the shops began to close for the night. I saw Fred through the window, alone behind the counter, his expression weary and distant.

Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The bell above the entrance jingled softly, and Fred looked up, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw me.

As I stood before Fred, my heart pounding in my chest, I could see the anger simmering beneath the surface of his usually jovial demeanor. His eyes, usually filled with mischief, were now dark with hurt and betrayal.

"Anaïs," he said, his voice sharp and cutting, "what do you want?"

I flinched at the harshness in his tone, but I squared my shoulders, refusing to back down. "I need to talk to you, Fred. Please, just hear me out."

He scoffed, his lips twisting into a bitter sneer. "Why should I listen to anything you have to say? You've already made your feelings perfectly clear."