Photograph | fred weasley x fem reader

Chapter Thirteen: The Three Broomsticks

"Did they ever find out who wrote that nonsense on the walls?" You asked as you trudged through the heavy layer of snow that had settled. Today you were visiting Hogsmede, and it was early November. You were heading into the quaint little village with Fred, George, Lee, Selene, Ishani and two of the twins' Gryffindor friends, Angelina and Maria. It had been about a week since you'd seen the strange, cryptic message written on the stone walls with Mrs Norris' stiff, unmoving body beneath it. Since then, rumours had spread about who the heir was and what it would mean. As of right now, nothing else had occurred, and life continued as normal.

You walked next to Fred, and he beamed at you, excited to get to Zonko's joke shop. Angelina piped up from next to Lee, "I heard Ron and Harry say that they thought it was Snape and that snotty Draco Malfoy. I have no idea why, but those boys seem to think Snape is an evil mastermind."

"That's 'cause he's a git," said George, "and definitely an evil one." Your group burst out into laughter, muttering about all the times Snape said something foul.

"I wonder how he still has his job. Do you think he's employed just to bully a bunch of literal children?" Ishani added. You shrugged,

"I think Dumbledore was high when he interviewed him. Actually, I think Dumbledore's always high. The other day, I walked past him in the corridor. He stopped me and said: 'I've chosen a rather lovely robe today don't you think?' I said 'yes, it's lovely Sir' and he responded with '10 points to Dumbledore'."

Fred laughed at your comment and you grinned. You hadn't discussed the library once and you were glad. You could both put it behind you and act like nothing happened. Because nothing happened. And you were glad. Yes, very, very glad.

Your group continued to chatter about all things, ranging from what type of underwear does Dumbledore wear (that was Lee) to studies and spells and charms, as you walked up the snow-dusted hill to Hogsmeade.

You gasped as the village came into view. It looked as though it had jumped right off the cover of a Muggle Christmas card; there was a large, carved stone pathway that branched out to collections of pointed-roofed buildings, each one beautifully dusted with pure, white snow and dripping with tiny flickering lights. Short evergreen plants protruded from the white-blanketed ground, creating a natural barrier around the buildings' stone walls that were covered in growing ivy. Christmas decorations in shimmering shades of red and gold hung from the eaves of the buildings, and plush holly and berry reefs hung firmly on each wooden door. Laughter filled the chilled air, and the white snowy sky created a perfect, still background. As you looked over the perfect scenery, you felt a small pang of longing for your father. You wished he could see this.

Fred leaned into you, "it's beautiful isn't it."

"Oh, it's magical! I can never get used to this, it looks so much more beautiful than last year," you exclaimed, with the joy of the wintery season and the opportunity to finally get away from the whispers about muggleborns and heirs and whatnot. You couldn't help but squeal with excitement. Fred chuckled and gently tapped you on your nose, and you beamed up at him, your cheeks flushing from both the snowy chill and his light, gentle touch. As the two of you smiled at each other, you revelled in the peaceful, tranquil feeling of the festive season. 

With Mrs Norris' petrification, the year hadn't gotten off to the best start. Especially since the Professors later confirmed the swirling rumours surrounding the writing on the wall. The so-called enemies of the Heir were the Muggle-born students. And with a Squib father and a Muggle-born mother, you knew you were a prime target.

Nevertheless, you threw yourself into your studies, determined to keep life as normal as possible. If you acted as though nothing had changed, maybe—just maybe—the growing unease in the castle wouldn't feel so suffocating. That meant carrying on as usual, pretending the fear in the air wasn't real... and, most importantly, forgetting that night in the library with Fred.