Chapter Text
The castle was quieter than a graveyard.
No portraits whispering. No suits of armor clanking. Just Roseanne Sinclair and the soft pat-pat of her socked feet against the cold stone floor.
She tightened her grip on the apple tart, still warm in her hands, the buttery crust practically begging her to take a bite. She didn't dare—not yet. Not until she was safe.
Not until she was far, far away from where she absolutely should not be.
Because this? This was stupid. Brilliant, obviously—but stupid.
"Just one snack," she muttered to herself, ducking into the shadow of a suit of armor as she heard something creak a few halls down. "You couldn't wait 'til breakfast, could you, Rose?"
She held her breath.
Another groan of floorboards.
Her heart skipped.
The sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate, and terrifyingly familiar.
Filch.
She swore under her breath. "Bloody hell."
Clutching the tart like it was her lifeline, she spun on her heel and bolted.
No time for stealth now. She sprinted, hair flying in wild streaks of black, brown, and gold, the edges of her robe flapping around her legs. She turned the corner too fast, nearly crashing into a wall—and then—
Thud.
She didn't hit stone.
She hit someone.
Or rather, two someones.
Strong arms caught her before she could fall flat on her arse. A second hand clamped over her mouth before she could scream.
"Shh!"
That voice—low, amused.
Fred Weasley.
And behind him, a familiar matching grin: George.
"What's this?" George whispered, glancing down at her pastry. "A romantic midnight stroll with a tart?"
She blinked up at him, glaring with as much venom as she could muster for someone with a hand still over her mouth.
Fred smirked. "Someone's been sneaking out."
She yanked his hand away, still breathless. "Yeah, well, so have you. What's your excuse, Tweedledee and Tweedledumber?"
George shrugged. "We could ask you the same. Thought you were a good little girl."
"Right," she said, regaining her footing. "And I thought you two graduated from pulling first-year levels of stupidity."
Fred stepped closer, one brow arched. "Oh? You didn't miss us, then?"
"I missed the peace and quiet," Rose said dryly, brushing herself off. "That was before you nearly made me drop my tart."
"Merlin forbid," George deadpanned. "A tragedy."
But before she could reply, the sound of footsteps echoed again—closer now.
"Oh for fuck's sake," Rose hissed.
Fred grabbed her wrist. "In here."
He yanked open the door to a disused broom cupboard.
"No—absolutely not—"
George shoved her gently by the small of her back, and in she went, smushed between broomsticks and boxes and—
Them.
The door closed behind them just in time.
They were way too close.
Fred's breath was warm near her ear.
George's arm was against her side.
The apple tart was somehow still in her hands, squashed between their bodies like a pathetic little peace offering.
"Great," she muttered. "Exactly how I wanted to die. In a broom closet. Sandwiched between you two idiots."
George snorted.
"Beats detention with Filch," Fred whispered. "Or worse... getting caught by Snape."
She scowled, but a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Still deciding which is worse."
Then—for a moment—silence.
Close.
Uncomfortably close.
She could feel the tension start to shift. The playful air between them didn't disappear, not entirely, but it was... different. Thicker.
She could hear Fred's heartbeat. Or maybe it was hers. She wasn't sure.
George cleared his throat. "Well. This isn't awkward at all."
"I swear to Merlin," Rose said, low and sharp, "if either of you say something about a threesome, I will kill you both."
Fred snorted. "Didn't say a thing."
George smirked. "But now that you mention it—"
THUMP.
They all froze.
A sound just outside.
Filch.
Still there. Still searching.
Rose closed her eyes, pressing the back of her head against the wall.
If this was how the year was going to start, she was doomed.
Absolutely, utterly, deliciously doomed.
"So..." Fred said, voice low, "anyone want to guess how long Filch plans to patrol?"
Outside, the shuffle of footsteps grew fainter—then louder again.
Rose groaned. "Long enough for me to starve and die a dramatic, tragic death."
George leaned slightly, careful not to knock a broom handle into her face. "We could risk it. Make a break for it. Maybe you can distract him with your charming wit while we run."
"Right, I'll just throw the tart at him and hope he has a sugar crash," she muttered. "Genius."
Fred tilted his head. "We stay put, then?"
"No," Rose drawled. "He's doing a full round. Kitchens, Astronomy Tower, probably the dungeons for fun. He won't be done until sunrise."
George blinked. "You've memorized his schedule?"
"Of course I have. I'm not stupid enough to sneak out without research."
Fred grinned. "She's organized. I like that."
"I'm also murderous when sleep-deprived," she added sweetly. "You'll like that less."
She shifted, trying to make more room in the closet. Impossible. George's shoulder brushed hers, and Fred's knee bumped hers.
"Tell me again why I'm stuck between the two of you like some sad broom cupboard sandwich," she grumbled.
"Because you were the one running down the corridor like a rogue pixie on fire," George said helpfully.
"And you were loitering in the dark like creeps."
Fred smirked. "We were on a noble mission."
Rose raised an eyebrow. "What kind of noble mission involves crouching in dark hallways after midnight?"
There was a beat of silence.
"...Dungbombs in Snape's office," George admitted.
"Classic," she said, unimpressed. "Very mature."
"It's called tradition, Rose," Fred said solemnly. "You wouldn't understand."
"Oh, I understand," she said, folding her arms—awkward in the cramped space. "You both have the emotional maturity of a flobberworm."
"Ouch," George muttered.
Fred chuckled. "You wound us."
"I can do worse," she replied, leaning back just enough to jab George's ribs with her elbow.
"Next time you trap me in a closet, I'll bring a Hex Bag."
George wheezed. "Violent. I love it."
"Don't fall in love with me now, Georgie. We'd never survive the long-distance."
Fred leaned in a fraction. "We're in the same school."
"Exactly," she said. "Too close. I'd end up throttling you."
They lapsed into a silence that wasn't quite awkward... but wasn't exactly comfortable either.
The kind of silence that made you feel the inches between knees. The warmth of shared breath. The slight shift of shoulders when one of them stretched and the others instinctively moved, adjusting, brushing, bumping.
Rose cleared her throat. "Alright. If we're really stuck here 'til sunrise, someone better tell a story. Or sing. Or summon snacks."
"I've got jokes," Fred offered.
George groaned. "No. No, don't let him—"
"Why did the cauldron break up with the kettle?"
"I swear to Godric—"
"Because it found him too steamy."
Rose made a dramatic choking noise. "That was worse than detention."
George turned to her. "You see what I live with?"
Fred was grinning at both of them now, like he'd just scored a Quidditch goal. "Come on, you love me."
"I tolerate you," Rose corrected. "Barely."
And yet—she was smiling. She couldn't help it.
They were idiots.
Comfortable, ridiculous, charming idiots.
Rose let out a long, suffering sigh. "Alright. If we're going to be stuck in this bloody cupboard all night, we might as well sit down before someone snaps an ankle."
"Agreed," George said, already shuffling downward.
Fred made a small, theatrical noise of protest. "And risk splinters in my arse? The horror."
"Oh, please," Rose said, kicking his shin lightly.
"You spend half your life falling off broomsticks. You'll survive a floorboard."
Grumbling under his breath, Fred followed George's lead, sliding down the wall until he hit the floor with a soft thud.
Rose tried to sit in the narrow gap between them and instantly regretted her life choices. There was barely space for her knees, let alone her entire body. George's leg pressed warm against her thigh, and Fred's shoulder was brushing hers in a way that was far too casual to be accidental.
"Well," she muttered, attempting to cross her legs without elbowing anyone in the nose. "This is cozy. Disgustingly cozy."
Fred smirked in the dark. "It's called bonding."
"Funny," she replied, deadpan. "I call it a violation of my personal space."
George snorted. "You're the one who got caught."
"I wasn't caught," she snapped. "Almost caught. There's a difference."
"You were running like Peeves was chasing you with a sock cannon."
She rolled her eyes. "It was a stealthy jog."
Fred gave a low laugh. "With full-blown panic breathing."
"Oh, sod off," she said, biting back a smile. "At least I wasn't loitering in a corridor like a pair of oversized gingersnaps with a vendetta."
"I take offense to that," George said lightly. "We're cinnamon rolls. With a hint of spice."
"I'm going to vomit."
Silence fell again—not awkward, just filled with the quiet creaks of wood and the soft rhythm of breath. Somewhere beyond the walls, Filch's footsteps finally faded to nothing.
Still, no one moved.
Rose shifted slightly, trying to stretch her legs without brushing against one of them. No chance. She accidentally nudged George's knee, which bumped into Fred's, which—
"Okay," she said flatly. "This is hell."
Fred's voice was far too amused. "It's not that bad."
"I am a woman of space," she said, head thunking lightly back against the wooden wall. "This cupboard is an insult to my freedom."
"You're just annoyed because we caught you mid-tart heist," George said, reaching over her lap and plucking the squashed pastry from her hands.
"Oi!" she snapped. "Give that back, you little shit—"
He took a bite. Right in front of her. The absolute nerve.
She stared at him. "I hope that crumbles in your lungs."
Fred leaned in slightly, resting his chin on her shoulder with a sigh. "You know," he murmured, "we really should've brought snacks."
"I did," Rose said, shooting George a glare.
"I mean edible ones," Fred added, eyes glittering.
"Dead. You're both dead."
But she didn't pull away.
Maybe it was the warmth of them on either side of her. Maybe it was the kind of delirium that came from staying up too late in ridiculous situations.
Or maybe it was something else entirely.
Whatever it was, she let her head fall back again with a dramatic sigh. "Next time I get a craving, I'm dragging Hermione with me."
"She wouldn't hide in a cupboard with us, George said. "She'd report us."
"Exactly. She's sane."
Fred smiled against her shoulder. "Where's the fun in sanity?"
Rose tilted her head slightly. "You're confusing fun with 'death wish.' Again."
Another pause.
No footsteps. No patrols. Just them.
Three idiots in a broom cupboard.
The minutes dragged on, and Rose's once fiery annoyance at being crammed into a tiny broom cupboard with the Weasley twins began to dull. It was just the kind of night that bled into another, the kind where nothing happened but everything did.
It wasn't ideal, of course. She could have been asleep in her warm, cozy bed, surrounded by her friends, blissfully ignorant of the fact that she was about to die from suffocation in a broom closet. She could have been dreaming of something far more pleasant, like, well, not this.
But here she was, wedged uncomfortably between Fred and George, who hadn't stopped poking fun at her, even though they'd both long since run out of jokes. Now, instead, they were just passing the tart around—each taking an exaggerated bite as though it were some kind of rare delicacy.
"You're ruining the last piece," she grumbled, eyeing George with a look of pure disdain.
"I've given up all pretenses," George said, grinning around his bite. "This is it. The final act. This tart will be our legacy."
Rose's lips twitched. "I'd be a little more concerned about the legacy you're leaving me."
"Right." Fred shot her a side glance. "If anyone's leaving you anything, it's crumbs."
"Careful, Fred," Rose muttered, "or you'll be getting a very different kind of gift from me in the morning. A Hex Bag, one-way express delivery."
He just laughed.
The sweet, warm air of the tart mixed with the slightly musky scent of broom bristles, and Rose sighed again. She couldn't help it. The situation had gotten... familiar. In a strange, slightly surreal way.
At least the twins weren't making it completely miserable.
George tapped the floor lightly with his foot.
"We should've brought a blanket, honestly."
"I'll survive the lack of comfort," Rose quipped. "What I can't survive is you two stealing my food and acting like you've got a monopoly on midnight snacks."
"I mean, we are technically better at this whole 'sneaking around' business," Fred chimed in. "We've had years of practice."
"Years of practice making terrible life choices," she shot back. "Just admit it—you're both awful at it and your success is more about dumb luck than skill."
"You wound us, Rose," Fred said, feigning hurt.
"I thought you'd appreciate our—"
"Skills?" Rose deadpanned.
"Yes! Skills," Fred said, bouncing on the floor as if the very idea of them being competent sneaky gits was a funny thought to him. "It's the art of subtlety."
"Subtlety?" Rose laughed, "What is that, one of your patented pranks? Because if you two aren't planning a joke in here, I'll eat my own hat."
George chuckled. "And if we were planning something, Rose, would you be prepared to join in?"
"Join in?" She raised an eyebrow, looking at him. "You're on your own there, mate."
They sat there for a moment, the banter easing into a comfortable lull.
The closeness, though... that was harder to ignore.
She shifted again, trying to get comfortable. The floorboards creaked, the air growing warmer by the minute, their bodies closer than they'd ever been before, the space between them impossibly small.
"Well," Rose finally muttered, "I guess we'll be here until sunrise."
"That's the plan," George agreed. "Think we'll survive?"
"Survive?" Rose shot him a teasing look. "Oh, I'll survive just fine. You, though? You're the ones at risk."
Fred leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. "We are at risk, aren't we? You're already planning our deaths."
"Only if you two make any more stupid comments," Rose said, tone light, but there was a gleam in her eyes. "I'll make it painful."
George laughed, a full, open sound that was almost... easy. Like it was just the three of them, comfortable in their own little world of madness.
Then Fred, ever the serious one (for about three seconds), leaned back, arms behind his head. "If you do kill us, Rose, at least promise we'll get a cool tombstone."
"Are you two seriously planning your funerals in a broom cupboard right now?" Rose asked, incredulous.
"We're just making plans for the future," Fred replied. "Keeps the boredom away."
She shook her head with a wry smile. "If the two of you end up on a tombstone, I'll laugh so hard they'll hear it in Hogsmeade."
The moments stretched, the absurdity of their situation settling like an odd kind of blanket between them. The moonlight cast just enough glow through the cracks in the cupboard to illuminate the slight mischievous glint in Fred's eyes and the quiet smirk on George's lips.
They were all just... there. No rush. No grand confessions. Just... this.
And for once, Rose didn't mind.
She just let it happen.