Photograph | fred weasley x fem reader

Chapter Eighteen: Summer at The Burrow

You let out a long silent yawn and stretched out your fingers as far as they could go, getting out all of the early morning cracks and aches. You quickly rubbed your eyes before stepping down the wooden staircase, careful to tread only on the woven runner. The third step from the bottom was the creaky one, so you supported yourself with the handrail and leapt over it, still trying your hardest to be as quiet as you could.

Though the warm summer sun was already up and shining through the lace curtains, it was rather early, and you didn't feel like waking up five groggy teenagers. Half-tiptoeing, you headed into the open kitchen, where the faint smell of last night's chicken pie still wafted through the air, and grabbed the worn orange kettle.

You hummed quietly to yourself as you filled it up with water, peering through the window at the garden. You could see a few bushes rustling where the Gnomes were busying about and a tiny little bluebird greeted you with her song. Flicking on the kettle, you let out a deep, contented sigh.

The kettle whistled away and you turned to lean against the countertop as you waited for it to boil. One of the windows was cracked open slightly, and a charming August breeze rustled your hair. The shelves and bookcases opposite where you stood were cluttered with all sorts of photographs and odd bits that the Weasley's had collected over the years. Next to a photo of a grinning baby Ginny in her father's arms was a stack of bowls in the shape of chickens, each one slightly chipped and dented. A pile of different trophies and awards and ribbons stood proudly, belonging to the three eldest boys, each one polished to perfection.

You smiled and stepped forward to brush your fingers against your favourite photograph. Sitting in a colourful puffy frame was the first ever photo you'd taken with Fred and George. The three of you stood on Platform 9¾, the steam from the train swirling in the air behind you. Your faces were full and round with youth, your cheeks were a bright, strawberry red and your hair was frizzy and wild. You waved nervously at the camera, while George crossed his eyes and wagged his ears. Fred stood slightly behind you, stretching his arm to poke his fingers out behind your head, a large, triumphant grin on his face. The photo looped over and over again, filling your heart with a sense of nostalgia and affection. How could that have been a little over four years ago? It somehow felt like both yesterday and a whole life time ago.

The kettle's whistle suddenly grew louder, snapping you out of your memories. You turned and quickly switched the thing off before it could start singing the upbeat tune Mr Weasley enchanted it with. You smiled to yourself at the thought of the twins, Percy, Ron and Ginny getting awoken by a slightly off-tune rendition of "Yellow Broomsticks."

You rummaged around on the mug shelf, looking for the right one to start your day with. And tucked behind all the others, right at the back, was the perfect choice. With a sly grin, you grabbed the lumpy, hand-made green mug with "Fred's mug- hands OFF" scrawled in blue ink across the front. You added an English Breakfast teabag, poured in the steaming water, added a dash of cinnamon and stirred in the creamy milk. The bluebird outside the window continued to sing as you watched the colours of your drink swirl together.

The first sip sent warmth spreading through your bones, and you let out a contented sigh, your mind already drifting to the upcoming school year. O.W.L.s were on the horizon, a nerve-wracking thought, but beneath the anxiety, there was a flicker of excitement. After all, this was the final year of studying every single subject— soon enough, you'd be waving farewell to those classes that droned on and on and on. Four long years of enduring Snape's sneers and cauldron-related misery, and soon, it would be over. No more Potions.

Instead, you could focus on the subjects that truly mattered—Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy, Transfiguration—everything that set your heart racing with curiosity rather than stress and misery. You smiled to yourself, utterly at peace in the quiet morning, your thoughts far away, lost in daydreams of Hippogriffs, Bowtruckles, and mischievous little Nifflers.