Chapter Text
Fred, June 30th 1998
The sign above Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was still half hanging, its last S swinging back and forth in the wind like it hadn’t decided whether to stay or fall. Fred stood beneath it, wand in hand, hair tied back in a sloppy knot.
“Oi, Fred! That’s the third time you’ve blown the cauldron up today,” George called from inside, coughing through a cloud of glittering purple smoke. “It’s not an explosion,” Fred said, squinting through the haze. “It’s- creative combustion.” “Creative combustion nearly took off your eyebrows.”
“Nearly,” Fred replied. “And that’s what makes it art.”
He would have gone on arguing with himself - or with George, who felt more like a reflection than a twin lately - if someone hadn’t cleared their throat behind him.
“Excuse me,” said a voice. “Are you the one responsible for this… incident?” Fred turned. The girl standing there wore a Ministry trainee badge slightly askew and a look that said she was trying very hard to appear older than she was. Her hair was black with a silver streak, and her robes smelled faintly of smoke.
“That depends,” Fred said, leaning on the doorframe. “If by ‘incident’ you mean artistic breakthrough, then yes. It's entirely my fault.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I mean the column of green smoke visible from Muggle London.”
“Ah. That.” Fred grinned, because it was easier than apologizing. “Collateral brilliance.”
She sighed, scribbling on a clipboard. “Name?”
“Fred Weasley. Visionary. Entrepreneur. Pyromancer, apparently.” He tilted his head. “And you are?”
“Lydia Lupin,” she said, without looking up. “Apprentice, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”
Fred froze, grin faltering for half a heartbeat. “Lupin, you say? Any relation to the old professor?”
She finally met his eyes then, pale grey, sharp and tired. “Only by blood. Never met the man.”
Something flickered in Fred’s expression: recognition, curiosity, a spark of something that hadn’t quite died with the war. He held out his soot-stained hand. “Well then, Miss Lupin. Welcome to the finest collection of bad ideas in Britain.”
Her lips twitched, almost smiling. “I’m here to fine you, actually.”
“Excellent start,” he said. “We’re going to get along brilliantly.”
The girl sighed again, her eyes dropping back to the clipboard in her hands. “So, you’re the owners of this establishment? Frederick Gideon Weasley and George Fabian Weasley?”
It was George who stepped forward this time, running a hand through his hair to shake off the dust from the explosion. “The one and only.”
“Right.” Her quill hovered above the parchment. “That makes the fourth complaint this week. Were there any customers inside?”
“No,” George said quickly. “We haven’t reopened yet. We’re just… trying to fix things up after-” He stopped. His eyes flicked toward his brother, and the unfinished sentence hung heavily in the air. Even now, months later, the memory of the Battle still shadowed every word they didn’t say. The girl nodded. She didn’t ask for clarification. The look in her eyes said she understood more than enough—she’d seen the same horrors they had, lived through the same grief.
Lydia Lupin closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself. When she opened them again, her expression had hardened into professional detachment.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but this is the Ministry’s fourth warning. We have enough collateral damage to deal with these days without adding a joke shop’s… failed experiments to the list.”
“People need to laugh,” Fred said defensively, his eyebrows knitting together.
“They need to laugh,” Lydia replied evenly, “not blow themselves up. I think we’ve had enough of that lately.”
She scribbled something briskly on her clipboard. “You’re getting off with a warning this time. But I’ll be stopping by more often to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
Fred’s grin turned roguish. “See us once and you already can’t stay away? I’m flattered, Miss Lupin.” Lydia rolled her eyes and handed him the clipboard.
“Sign here, please.” “If you wanted my autograph, you could’ve just asked.” His fingers brushed hers as he took the quill and signed F. G. Weasley with a flourish. George followed, though his glance lingered on his twin; he hadn’t seen Fred this animated in weeks.
“Mr. Weasley,” Lydia said coolly, “before I ever ask for your autograph, you’d have to do something worth signing for.”
Fred smirked. “What if I made you laugh?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She slipped the quill into her pocket and turned sharply, not trusting her expression. “Good day, Mr. Weasley. Mr. Weasley.”
And just like that, she strode off down the street, boots clicking against the cobblestones, not once looking back. Fred watched her disappear into the sunlight. Something in his chest tightened, the kind of ache that wasn’t quite pain, but wasn’t laughter either. George nudged him. “Well,” he said dryly, “she’s definitely your type.” Fred’s grin faltered, then returned, smaller this time, but real. “Yeah,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on where she’d gone.
“Guess I’ve always had a thing for trouble.”