Bludger To The Heart
Fred Weasley was not used to being invisible. He and George were a package deal- loud, brash and impossible to miss. But lately, he had been blending into the background, and it was all because of Atlas Grey. Ever since what George dubbed the ‘Malfoy incident’, Fred could not stop thinking about Atlas. But she didn’t seem to notice him—not the way he noticed her. And Merlin, did he notice her. It wasn’t the big moments like her telling Malfoy off. It was the little things, the quirks that slipped out when she thought no one was looking. Fred found himself cataloguing them, like a magpie collecting shiny bits of treasure.
Three days later, Fred was still thinking about that weird buzz he felt in his chest, and the library was definitely not helping. He was haunting his usual spot by the window with George. The air smelled of old parchment and ink with a tinge of melting wax from the flickering candles. A crumpled map of Hogwarts lay between them, its edges curling up from many folds. Fred traced a finger along the forbidden forest, half-listening as George whispered about an underground walkway.
“Reckon we can rig it,” George said, while scrawling a doodle of Filch’s cat with a funny face. “Mrs. Norris would lose her mind.”
Fred snorted, slouching lower in his chair, one leg kicked out under the table. “Yeah, and we’d lose a month to detention. Worth it, though.” His voice was lazy, but his eyes weren’t on the map. He’d been focused on Atlas the second she’d walked in, boots scuffing softly on the stone floor. She headed for a table near the restricted section with Parvati Patil trailing behind her, chattering about something Fred couldn’t hear over whatever George was saying.
Atlas dropped into the chair and pulled out a battered copy of Advanced Charms Theory. Parvati slid in across from her, laughing at something that made Atlas’s lips twitch. They both started writing and then Fred saw it. Every few minutes, she would twirl the quill she was using around her fingers, quick and precise, like a practiced dance. She didn’t even look at it and kept writing with her brows furrowed in concentration. Ink was smudging faintly on her hands.
“She’s got this thing she does,” Fred muttered, nodding towards her, his voice low enough to dodge Madam Pince’s steel eyes.
George glanced up from the map, squinting across the room. “What, writing? Groundbreaking, Freddie.”
“No, you git. The quill. Watch.” Fred nudged his head, as subtle as he could manage, and sure enough, Atlas twirled it again with a flick. George snorted, but Fred couldn’t peel his eyes away. It was such a small thing, but he was mesmerized.
He picked up his own battered up quill from the table and gave it a twirl, trying to match her rhythm. Once, twice— then it slipped from his hand, flipping over to smack George square in the forehead with a thwap. George yelped, louder than he meant, and a ripple of shushes hissed from nearby tables.
“Oi, watch it!” George hissed, rubbing his forehead. He was half annoyed, half amused. “What’s got you so clumsy? You’re not turning into Longbottom, are you?”
Fred’s ears went pink, and he snatched the quill back, tossing it onto the map. “Shut it,” he whispered, but his gaze went back to Atlas. She hadn’t even looked up, just kept scribbling. Parvati said something else, and she laughed— a quiet, warm sound that hit Fred like a charm he hadn’t braced for. Her eyes crinkled, and she pressed her lips together after, like she’d been embarrassed it’d slipped out.
Fred leaned forward, pressing both elbows onto the table. The library turned into a blur around him. That laugh, that twirl, the way she didn’t notice him staring— it was ridiculous, how much he liked it. How her laugh made his chest feel tight, warm and buzzing.
George kicked him under the table as he stood up, snapping him out of his trance. “You’re out of it, mate. Properly dazed. What’s got you so twisted?”
“Dunno,” Fred grinned as he slouched back, twirling the quill again, this time catching it before it flew.
Someone dropped a book with a thud, earning a sharp “Quiet!” from Pince. Atlas flinched, and Fred’s grin lingered, hoping she would look up. She did. She looked up, met his gaze, and smiled at him.
.
.
.
Three days later, Fred was still chasing that buzz, her smiling at him looping in his head over and over again. Tuesday’s classes seemed to drag on forever. Potions was a slog of Snape’s usual sneers and jabs at the Gryffindors, and Charms was a bore, but the quidditch pitch after classes was a welcome mess of noise and crisp air. The Gryffindor team was gearing up for their practice match with Hufflepuff, and Fred was itching to get onto the field.
The wind was already tugging at his scarf as he pulled it off and hauled his Beater’s bat from the locker room. Fred adjusted his gloves, tightening his grip on the bat as he joined the rest of the team for their warm-up. A few spectators were gathered in the stands, chattering amongst themselves. His eyes flicked across the pitch, past Oliver Wood barking orders, past George looping in circles, and landed on one person. Atlas. She was perched on the edge of the stands with Luna Lovegood beside her. Luna was talking, and Atlas was nodding along, but her gaze kept flicking over to Cedric, who was warming up with the Hufflepuffs. Fred’s stomach twisted with a familiar feeling. It was the same feeling he had on the field, a competitive urge to win. The game kicked off with a blast of the whistle and he pushed that nagging feeling aside when he saw the Quaffle rise into the air.
The game was fast, and fierce, the kind of chaos he usually thrived in. He felt alive as he swung a Bludger that went spiraling off right into Cedric. George whooped nearby and the Gryffindors in the stands cheered. He looked over at Atlas and saw it. She was watching Cedric as he tried to balance himself back onto his broom. Fred’s chest tightened again, this time with a prickling ache. The jealousy hit him as hard as the Bludger that the Hufflepuff Beater sent flying his way.
By the end, Gryffindor won 130 to 70 as Harry snagged the snitch in a dive that had the gathered spectators screaming. “Nice one, Potter!” Oliver hollered, slinging an arm around Harry. Fred’s eyes sought Atlas again. She stood, clapping with the crowd. His unearned jealousy crawled back again as Cedric flew over to the girls. He’d won the match, but it felt like a loss.
The Gryffindor team made their way off the pitch cheering. Fred was a few paces ahead, but George quickly caught up with him. “Well, Freddie,” he began with a raised eyebrow. “You sure took one hell of a hit. What were you thinking?”
Fred grinned. “Yeah, yeah. I was thinking of a plot to flatten the Puffs.”
George smirked. “Are you sure that’s all you were plotting?”
Fred didn’t answer, just turned toward the changing rooms with a dull ache in his chest.
.
.
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The sun dipped low as Fred lingered in the courtyard outside the changing rooms. The match’s adrenaline has now faded into a quite hum. Half of the team, including George, were still in the changing rooms, Oliver was barking about drills tomorrow when he had snuck out. He was leaning against the stone arch in the yard, twirling his wand absently. He let his wand spin between his fingers, mimicking that library twirl he couldn’t forget.
Students were milling about, kicking leaves into piles and haggling over chocolate frogs. The air was crisp from the faint smell of woodsmoke coming from Hagrid’s hut. He spotted Atlas again, a few feet away, talking amongst a crowd. Cedric was there too, smiling at her. Fred’s stomach twisted— why did her looking at Cedric sting so much?
He was about to shove off the arch and head back into the changing room when two Ravenclaw girls passed by Luna, loudly saying “Lost your way to the loony bin, Lovegood?”
Luna didn’t react, serene as ever, but Atlas’s jaw clenched. “Got something to say?” She called out to the girls. The girls froze, caught off guard. “Er—no,” one of them stammered and they both scurried off, robes flapping behind them like startled birds.
“She’s got a knack for that.” Fred whispered as he watched Luna offer a radish earring to her. “For the Wrackspurts.” She said, unfazed.
George and Angelina crept up behind Fred. “Knack for what? Playing Hero?” George teased as he suddenly leapt up at him. Fred didn’t flinch; he was far too used to his brother’s habit of catching people off guard.
Fred didn’t reply right away, watching Atlas and Luna drift off into the crowd. “She’s… sure of herself,” he said softly, the words settling like a promise.
George snorted, clapping his shoulder. “You’re hopeless, mate. Properly falling for her.”
Fred didn’t argue. His heart was already miles ahead, thudding a rhythm he couldn’t stop if he tried. George was right—he was falling for her, had been since that library smile three days back, maybe since the Malfoy incident if he was honest. The quill twirl, that quiet laugh, the way she didn’t bend for anyone, not Malfoy, not those Ravenclaws, not even the crowd’s whispers. And Cedric—bloody Cedric—standing there with his Hufflepuff charm, snagging her glances like it was nothing. Fred’s wand spun once more between his fingers, a restless little dance, and he let out a breath, half-laugh, half-resolve.
He’d made up his mind. He was going to win her heart—Cedric be damned. That buzz in his chest wasn’t just jealousy anymore, it was a spark, a challenge, a stupid, stubborn hope. He could still feel her smile from the library, soft and real, looping in his head like one of those Muggle tunes his father wouldn’t shut up about. She didn’t see him yet, not really—but she would. He’d make her.
The courtyard emptied out, students trickling toward the castle as the sky bruised purple, lanterns flickering to life along the paths. Fred shoved his wand into his pocket, the wood warm from his grip, and pushed himself away from the arch. “C’mon, you prat,” he said to George, voice lighter than he felt, “before Oliver drags us back for extra laps.”
George smirked, falling into step beside Angelina, who shot Fred a knowing look. “Better watch it, Weasley,” she said, her tone teasing. “Keep staring at her like that, and she’ll catch you doodling ‘Mr. Frederick Grey’ in the margins of your notes.”
“Let her,” Fred shot back, grin widening as he kicked a pile of leaves, sending them scattering. Hopeless, maybe, but he didn’t mind. Atlas Grey was a puzzle worth solving—one quirk, one smile at a time—and he’d get there, no matter how long it took.