Photograph | fred weasley x reader

Chapter Twelve: Lies and Sherbet Lemons

Harry stayed at the Burrow for the last few weeks of summer, and before long, the sweet-natured boy felt like the brother you never had. During his first year, you'd been so caught up with new subjects and causing harmless mayhem with the twins that you hadn't really gotten to know him. But as the lazy summer days drifted by and you helped him with his homework or sneaked him pieces of Felince's Fizzing Fudge from your secret stash, you truly grew to care for him.

It was during those quiet evenings that Harry began sharing snippets of his life with the Dursleys. One night, you and the twins had built a sprawling fort from Mrs. Weasley's blankets in the living room and the three of you lounged beneath the fabric canopy with Ron and Harry (Ginny was still too shy to join), when Harry casually mentioned that his birthday had been completely forgotten the week before. The offhand way he said it only made it more heartbreaking.

You shared a look with Fred and George, and without a word, the three of you dashed to the kitchen. While you scrambled for ingredients, Fred grabbed candles, and George found leftover icing. Together, you cobbled together a lopsided but heartfelt birthday cake. Back under the fort, you sang "Happy Birthday" in hushed whispers, trying not to wake the rest of the house, and Fred set off two tiny red fireworks that painted the room in soft, flickering light. 

Since you had already finished all your homework while staying at your dad's, any time not spent playing Quidditch in the yard with the younger boys was spent in Fred and George's room. There, the three of you experimented with various potions and brews, the familiar sounds of explosions and fizzing echoing through the house as usual.

At dinner, Mr. Weasley always liked to sit between you and Harry, eagerly bombarding you both with questions about Muggles—especially Harry, since the Dursleys were apparently as perfectly normal as you could get thank-you-very-much. 

About a week after Harry arrived, you shuffled into the kitchen in the early morning, your hair a tangled mess and your pyjamas slightly askew. You gave Ginny a sleepy grin as she dove into a large bowl of porridge in front of her. The twins, unsurprisingly, were still sound asleep, snoring loudly- the three of you had stayed up until the early hours scribbling notes on a potion meant to create explosions of purple smoke. You smiled gratefully as Mrs. Weasley placed a steaming cup of tea and a plate of toast in front of you. 

Ginny chatted away eagerly, her eyes wide with excitement as she rambled about her anticipation for the trip to Diagon Alley. That morning, the school letters had arrived, adding to the buzz. Just as she was mid-sentence, Harry and Ron stumbled down the stairs, looking groggy.

The moment Harry stepped into the kitchen, Ginny, who had become rather prone to knocking things over in his presence, let out a small squeak and accidentally sent her porridge bowl crashing to the floor with a loud clatter. Her face turning as red as her hair, she quickly dived under the table to retrieve it.

Harry, bless his kind heart, acted as if he hadn't noticed a thing and quietly took his seat. You couldn't help but snicker, earning a sharp whack on the leg from Ginny under the table. You retaliated with a gentle nudge of your foot, a playful grin tugging at your lips. 

"Letters from school," Mr. Weasley yawned, handing identical envelopes to Harry and Ron. Your grin widened as Fred and George shuffled in, their hair sticking up worse than usual. They grinned back and Fred dropped into the seat next to you, reaching for the letter his dad had slid across the table.

George paused as he pulled out his chair, glancing down at the floor. "Ginny, what on Earth are you doing?"

Fred leaned over curiously, letting out a loud roar of laughter when he spotted his tomato-faced sister still hiding under the table. Normally, Ginny would have fired back with a sarcastic comment, but with Harry there, all she could manage was a tiny squeak. You jabbed Fred in the ribs, silently telling him to leave her alone, though you couldn't stop yourself from smirking.