Photograph | fred weasley x reader

Chapter One: Platform 9¾

"Have you got all of your books? What about your wand? Please do not forget your wand—oh Merlin's beard," your Dad said, clearly stressed. His eyes darted around you nervously and he pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow.

You smiled, trying to ease his concern. "I've got everything, Dad." 

You tapped the trunk that was almost as tall as you were. The carrier for your pet cat was perfectly balanced on top, and your wand was tucked away safely in the pocket of your shoulder bag. "I double-checked the list before we left, and I crossed everything off as I did. Don't worry," you continued, leaning in to wrap your arms around his waist. He pushed his glasses up, as they'd begun to slide down the bridge of his nose, and hugged you tightly.

"Thank my dirty socks that my daughter is so organised. I dread to think where we'd be if you'd taken after me," he laughed, kissing the top of your head.

"Probably still trying to pack while the train leaves without me," you said, earning another chuckle.

For nine years, it had just been you and him. He worked long hours and many days a week. As you'd gotten older and became capable of not burning the kitchen down, he'd worked more and more to keep the two of you afloat in your crooked little house. Although you were now buzzing with excitement, you couldn't deny how much you worried about him.

When you received your acceptance letter, you almost turned it down. Your Dad needed you more than he let on, and after years of you being the one to cook hot dinners and clean the tiny cottage you called home, you wondered if your dad even knew how to fry eggs. How could you leave him for ten months at a time? How could you leave him behind for seven years?

But now, standing on the bustling Platform 9 ¾, with owls hooting around you and the air filling with the thick steam from the scarlet train, you were excited—and exceedingly anxious—to start this new adventure. Parents' worried words and their children's goodbyes swirled around your ears as you let go of your Dad.

He looked down at you, his eyes beginning to fill with tears. He sighed sadly.

"I wish I could see you off, sweetheart," he said, his voice catching on the last word. He quickly glanced at his worn watch on his wrist and frowned. "I hate to leave you like this. You're growing up so fast. Feels like yesterday you were just a little thing, running around the house and asking a thousand questions."

"Dad, it's okay," you said gently. "You got me here, and that's more than I could have asked for. It wasn't exactly cheap." You gave him a reassuring smile, even though the lump in your throat threatened to make you tear up.

He shook his head and muttered quietly, "No eleven-year-old should have to worry about that. You've always done so much for me... I just wish I could do more for you."

You stepped forward and reached for him again, pulling him into a hug, tighter this time.

"I just want you to be happy, Y/N. I know this is something you've wanted for so long," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Just promise me you'll look after yourself. Make some friends, alright? Don't go isolate yourself in a world of books. Have fun and don't spend all your time studying. And don't be afraid to ask for help- I know you, you're as stubborn as anything."

You blinked back the sting of tears. "I'll try. Promise."

"Good," he murmured, pulling back to look at you with a small, fond smile. "And write to me. I want to hear everything—what you're learning, what you're doing, all of it. I'll even take letters about the food at this place," he added with a small laugh, though his eyes glistened with the unsaid.

"Of course I will," you assured him. "You'll probably get sick of me writing so much."

"Never," he said firmly, learning over to press a kiss on your hair. He held on a moment longer than usual, and you let yourself sink into the comfort of it, memorising the familiar smell of coffee and worn leather. When he finally pulled back, he cleared his throat, swiping a hand quickly across his eyes.