Photograph | fred weasley x fem reader

Chapter Five: The First Night

That evening, Mrs. Weasley prepared a warm dinner of potato stew with thick homemade bread and a mixed salad. The August sun lingered high in the sky, casting a golden glow through the Burrow's kitchen windows and bathing the dining room in soft light. You sat opposite Fred, with George on your left and Ginny on your right. Ron, seated next to Fred, eyed you cautiously, as if trying to figure you out.

As you took your first spoonful, an explosion of flavours hit your tongue—a medley of herbs, rich broth, and hearty potato. Warmth spread through your body, and you couldn't help but exclaim in delight.

"Oh, Mrs. Weasley, this is fantastic!" you said, beaming. "My dad would love this." The soft chunks of potato practically melted in your mouth, and you could almost hear your father's approving "yum" in your head.

Mrs. Weasley's face lit up, her eyes twinkling as she clasped her hands together. "I'm so glad you like it," she replied warmly. "We'll have to have your father over for tea sometime. He sounds like a man with good taste."

Fred smirked from across the table, his eyes glinting mischievously. "Blimey, Y/N, you've been here less than an hour, and you're already Mum's favorite!"

Scooping an exaggeratedly large bite of stew, Fred dramatically rubbed his stomach and moaned, "Ooooh, Mum! My mouth has been blessed by the heavens! Pray, tell me—what year did Godric Gryffindor himself bestow upon you such divine cooking skills?"

Laughter erupted around the table. George nearly choked on his bread, while Ginny rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck.

"Oh, give it a rest," Ginny teased, shooting Fred a mock glare. "You've been trying that same act since you were six, and it's still not working."

Mrs. Weasley swatted at Fred's arm playfully as she passed him the salad bowl. "Oh, Fred, honestly. You're lucky I don't smack you with this ladle," she said with a smirk, shaking her head.

As the late afternoon slipped by, a sense of calm settled over the Burrow. Dinner wound down, and Ginny practically jumped out of her seat to grab your hand.

"Come on, Y/N! I want to show you my bedroom," she said eagerly, tugging you toward the stairs with such force you nearly tripped.

"Ginny!" George called after her, his voice thick with mock concern. "Try not to rip her arm off, would ya?"

You laughed, glancing back as Ginny shot him a glare. "Don't worry, George—I'll take care of your only friend!" she quipped, her tone sweetly cutting.

Fred, lounging on the sofa with his arms stretched behind his head, chimed in without missing a beat. "It's alright, Ginny. You can tear both her arms off if you'd like. As long as she's still got her brain, she's perfect."

The casual comment sent heat rushing to your cheeks. What was wrong with you? Just because Fred had gotten taller and his voice had deepened slightly, you were suddenly turning into a dewy-eyed mooncalf. Ridiculous. This was Fred—the same boy who once charmed a toilet seat to scream whenever anyone sat on it.

You shook your head, as if to banish the strange fluttering feeling. Ginny, oblivious to the exchange, kept dragging you upstairs, chatting about everything from her favourite broomsticks to the newest prank the twins had pulled.

Once in her room, Ginny spun around, her eyes wide with excitement. She pointed to a cosy mattress tucked into the corner, layered with F/C knitted blankets and plump cushions. "That's where you'll be sleeping," she announced, flopping onto her own pink-covered mattress with a grin. "I hope it's okay."

You grinned at her. "It's perfect, thank you, Ginny," you replied, sitting down on the soft blankets. You brushed your fingers through the fluffy fabric. "This is my favourite colour."