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Chapter Text

The roar of the stands was deafening, even more so with the beating of rain that hammered down onto the players. Rain pelted down in fine bullets, slicking broom handles and making every pass a gamble. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were neck-and-neck, the score hovering painfully close with the Snitch still nowhere to be found.

George tightened his grip on the bat, eyes shooting between the quaffle and the black bludger that was closing in only metres away. His heart was pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of the match.

There you were, number seven- a chaser of the Hufflepuff team. Hair was plastered to your face, and even so, the sweat and rain shone like glitter on your cheeks. You were quite a distraction to George. A bludger reared towards your left side. George could intercept it. He had done such a thing hundreds of times; it could knock you off your balance, even shake you to drop the quaffle.

You caught his eye just for a second, a wild glint that almost dared him to do so. He hesitated, lightning cracking somewhere far off in the distance. Instead, he twisted his broom just slightly, angling the bat harmlessly at the empty air as the Bludger whistled past. The momentary lapse was all you needed; you cut through the gap, Quaffle tucked close, and launched it clean through the left goal hoop.

"HUFFLEPUFF SCORES!" Lee Jordan's voice bellowed, muffled slightly by the gale. "Ten–nil to Hufflepuff, and a blistering play from their number seven Chaser!"

The Hufflepuff stands erupted in cheers, yellow flags repping their house flying high in the hands of the students. Above head, Cedric had a wide toothy grin, giving you a slap on the shoulder and cheering on his best mate while he kept an eye peeled for the snitch.

Angelina looked at George with rage in her eyes, "What the hell are you doing, mate?" She shouts down at him.

"Losing us the match, apparently," Alicia dove past him, eyes locked on the quaffle.

Fred shot over to him in seconds, pulling level with George and glaring through the rain. "What are you doing? You could've had her off her broom!"

"I couldn't get the angle."

"You didn't even swing!"

"DO YOUR JOB!" Oliver shouts from the goalpost, watching them like a hawk. But there was no time to argue. Hufflepuff had possession again. George knew well in that moment that Oliver would chew him out into oblivion after the match.

Rain fell in sheets now, and everyone across the pitch was soaked, weighed down, and it was a constant battle to keep from slipping off their brooms. It stung like needles, little pinpricks across his face.

George hovered near midfield, heart thrumming in his ears louder than the crowd. Hufflepuff had the Quaffle again. Not just Hufflepuff, you. Number Seven. You'd stolen it mid-pass with a move so clean even Lee Jordan went hoarse trying to describe it over the wind. You were weaving through Angelina and Alicia like they were no obstacle whatsoever.

George saw you coming. He saw the way Wood tensed in front of the goal hoops, jaw tight, braced like he knew this was trouble.

The Bludger screamed toward your line. George angled for it.

Fred saw the same thing, the perfect chance. George raised his bat again like he had the entire round just to do next to nothing. Fred darted in, and he slammed his shoulder against George, moving him out of the way.

Fred didn't hesitate for one second to hit the bludger with the full force of his arm, muscles flexing with resistance. It connected just beneath your ribs with a vicious crack. It looked painful enough to pull gasps from students in the stands, eyes widening at the sight.

The impact knocked your breath away. Your broom lurched sideways violently, the handle twisting under your weight.

You didn't panic, just grabbed, one hand barely catching the tail of your broom, legs dangling into open air. Rain whipped at you, fingers straining, knuckles white against the polished wood as gravity clawed you downward.

The slick surface fought with your grip and the weight of your body. The quaffle still in your other hand trembled as your muscles shook. The Gryffindor chasers were quick to close in on you, narrowing in from all corners of the field.

To much surprise, you released the quaffle, it tumbled downwards, and there was Cadwallader to swing under and grab it. He was a bulky guy, still quick enough to catch it. He streaked past Katie, diving towards the leftmost hoops and throws. Wood reaches out and misses it by a hair.

Oliver Wood bellowed something wordless and furious from the goalposts, his face darker than the storm looming overhead, eyes burning with fury.

With both hands free, you manage to haul yourself back onto the broom just before Fred's second bludger collides with you and takes you out of the game for good. The crowd roared even louder, the colours of every house blurred into a dizzying and disorienting sight.

Harry and Cedric saw it at the same time, that shiny golden bit of light amidst the treacherous downpour.

Broomsticks screaming under the force, wind tearing the breath from their lungs, both of them leaning so far forward they were practically horizontal, eyes burning against the driving sleet.

The Snitch darted left, shot straight up, then plummeted again like it had a death wish. Harry's fingers brushed air where gold had been a heartbeat ago; Cedric's broom cut across his path so close the bristles tangled for a split second before tearing free.

Lee's voice was riddled with excitement. He stood under an umbrella McGonnagol held up to keep both of them sheltered. "Potter and Diggory are both after the snitch; this could decide how the year goes! We've lost them, I can't even see who's ahead!"

Below them, the chasers were still going at it. Angelina was determined to get one more goal despite the seeming futility of it all. Alicia swung wide, but Summerby blocked like a brick wall, sending the Quaffle spinning back into yellow hands.

George didn't even move for the next Bludger. His eyes weren't on the Quaffle, or the Chasers, or the next scoring attempt. They were on an aerial knife-fight between two Seekers, high above, the end dangling just out of reach. His hands felt numb. Fred, meanwhile, played like a man possessed, slamming Bludgers at anything in yellow, buying Gryffindor's Chasers seconds they couldn't quite turn into points.

The Snitch had levelled out, low over the pitch, skimming just inches above the grass. Harry and Cedric were so low now their toes threatened to rip up turf. Cedric leaned in, his frame bigger, heavier, his broom's nose edged ahead.

Harry stretched. Fingers splayed. A whisper of gold brushed his glove, then a spray of cold mud as Cedric slammed his weight forward and closed his fist.

A flash of golden wings disappeared in Hufflepuff's hands. The whistle cut through all the noise like a gunshot.

Lee Jordan's voice cracked over the din, half disbelief, half admiration: "CEDRIC DIGGORY HAS THE SNITCH! HUFFLEPUFF WINS. THREE-HUNDRED-AND-TEN TO ONE-HUNDRED-AND-TWENTY!"

The Hufflepuff stands erupted. Yellow flags whipped in the gale, students screaming themselves hoarse, the sound deafening. Cedric did a wide, rain-slick victory lap, one fist aloft, the Snitch glinting faintly in the storm.

Angelina cursed loudly enough in her fit of rage to make the first years contort their faces in concern. Oliver hovered in place; he looked as if the love of his life had torn out his heart before his eyes, mouth opening then closing in a fit of heartbreak. There were no words to come from his lips, just a craggled whisper of despair. Katie simply put her face in her hands, rain mixing with what might have been tears.

The team did not take this loss well.

Fred watched as you plummeted down, discarding your broom on the pitch to wrap Cedric in a hug. The Hufflepuff team swaddled both of you; it was a blur of soaked yellow robes all huddling in, arms across backs, faces burrowed in collarbones.

He joins his brother on the ground, who is not so eagerly anticipating the scolding he is about to receive from Wood. He hits him harshly on the arm, "Look what you did!"

"What I did?" He holds his arm in the tender patch. "I'm not the one who didn't catch the snitch!"

"They were a hundred points ahead of us anyhow!"

"Why's the blame on me? Wood was the one letting goals in," George defends.

Oliver dismounts his broom, stalking towards them on the pitch, "WEASLEY!" He shouts, and George knows that he isn't talking about his twin.

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Breakfast was painfully loud the next morning. George ate his bacon all while getting scolded by his entire house, who whined with defeat. The loss had hung heavy in his head all night. Oliver's lambasting had knocked some sense back into him; he was lazy with longing during the match, and shamefully, it had gotten in the way of gameplay

"Wait- George let her score?" Ron said through a mouthful of food. "I thought he was just shoddy."

"I didn't let her score," He groaned. "I was simply off my game."

"Her dad is the coach of the Montrose Magpies, she's a pretty sharp player," Lee, for once, came to his defence instead of dog-piling.

"Right," George points at him, "What he said."

"You totally let her score!" Fred argues.

"Are you saying she wouldn't have scored if George was trying?" Ginny peeps up, one eyebrow quirked, "Because George far surpasses her skills, right? Because he's a man?" She says sarcastically, daring them to push further.

"No, no- I'm not saying that. Women are just as capable," Fred says pointedly, "I'm saying Georgie's all dreamy-eyed, he probably lobbed the quaffle to her himself."

There was a round of 'Ooooohs' from the table. Everyone wanted to listen in, even though they weren't affiliated with the situation in any way. "Drop it," George warned, stabbing his fork into his eggs with enough force to make them squeak on the plate.

Fred leaned in, voice low. "Think she'll remember you fondly when she's off with the Magpies, or will you just be a tragic footnote, 'that handsome bloke who cost his team the Cup because he was lovesick?'"

George nudged his shoulder just as Fred brought a glass of pumpkin juice to his lips; it spilled down his fresh white button-up.

Fred whipped his head up to say something, but the air had quickly shifted, signalling the arrival of Oliver Wood. Oliver plopped himself down firmly between the twins; they shifted to the side awkwardly to make room, catching the others' eyes.

"Morning, lads," Oliver said, voice bright in the way a hex is before it strikes you. Fred opened his mouth, maybe to greet, maybe to defend, but Oliver raised a single finger without looking at him. "Not now." He unrolled a crumpled bit of parchment onto the table- the diagram of the pitch hastily sketched with Xs and arrows that looked increasingly violent toward the Gryffindor goal hoops.

"Right," Oliver began, stabbing his finger onto a little mark representing George's usual zone, "You here-you never left this line. Why? Why, George?" His voice seeps with desperation the way an ex would plead to get back together..

George stared at the parchment. "Because... that's my zone?"

Oliver shot him a look. "No, you left your zone. You drifted off. We all know why you did. We all know," He emphasizes.

"And you-" Oliver turned to Fred, "you did fine cleaning up after him, but don't think for a second you're off the hook. You waited too long to take her off the play; she had room, space, time. We play as a unit, not as a rescue mission for lovesick Beaters!"

Fred raised a finger. "In fairness, Captain, I did knock her off her broom."

"Not before she scored!" Oliver barked.

Fred shut his mouth, lips pressed tight, eyes glinting with mischief.

Oliver leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We're still in the running for the Cup, but only if we tighten our defence. No distractions. No mercy. And absolutely no mooning over the opposition. Are we clear?"

George mumbled, "Clear," into his toast.

"Louder."

"Clear," both twins chorused, like chastised schoolboys.

In came the Hufflepuff team, lagging behind from a long night of celebration. Their table cheered for them. They respond with movie-star smiles, of course, they always did. Their praise felt good in your ears, hands warm in yours when they shook them to show their congratulations, how you loved to win.

Crossing the hall to reach the table, Cedric halts in front of the Gryffindor team. "Thanks for a great game last night," He smiles and holds out his hand for Oliver to shake it.

He eyes his outstretched hand like it's an unknown mystery, with hesitation, he takes it and mumbles, "Great game."

"Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory," Whitby laughs. He's a tall, lanky thing, and Oliver is sure he could snap in half.

"Come off it," Cedric nudges him.

"He's only joking," You smile, eyes trained on George. "You were brilliant."

"I usually am," He grins.

"You too," You look at Fred, "Left me with a wicked bruise." You pull up your sweater, revealing the purple skin he had left indented on your body. It ached every time you took a breath, but it was an impressive hit. You exposed your stomach to the whole of the dining hall just beneath the band of your bra.

Fred's grin faltered when he saw the mark. "Oh, Merlin," he blurted, a rare flicker of colour hitting his own freckled cheeks. "I'm sorry, that's-

"You nearly sent me into orbit, love," you laugh, tugging the sweater back down, "No worries- don't hate the player, right?"

"Hate the game," He finishes the phrase, a look of utter scorn across his face. He definitely hated the player.

"Exactly," You draw out. "But, good luck for your next match, yeah?" You give a polite wave as you turn and walk away.

Once your team is out of earshot, Oliver looks from Fred to George, "Stay away from that girl." He then stiffens in his seat, head on a swivel as he looks at the rest of the Gryffindor team. "All of you stay away from that girl."

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Potions were dragging on as it so often did. The dimly lit dungeon lined with glass bottles of incantations did little to keep the mind from shifting focus. George's mind was often one to wander; it took many different paths of its own and delved long and often into future fantasies and the possibilities that arose as soon as he was released from class.

Snape droned on longer than needed. All he truly had to do was hand out instructions, and surely he could figure out the rest.

Potions were like cooking; follow the instructions, and you'll end with a result similar to what was intended. However, George was seasoned enough to change the recipe.

The Draught of Peace was simple enough, not so simple with his twin brother trying to sneak ground valerian root into his potion. George's hand darted out to intercept just before Fred could empty the vial into his cauldron.

Fred could only grin at him with the knowledge that he had been caught. George stirred lazily, a lavender mist rising to the surface of the cauldron. As expected. Fred dropped the vial into his hands.

Lee was hunched over his own potion, the instructions held close to his narrowed eyes and knit brows as if they were written in another incoherent language. His cauldron emitted an uncertain fizzing noise, not unlike a kettle that might be considering an early retirement.

George casually brushed his hand across the table, sliding a pinch of ground valerian root just far enough that Fred's elbow could bump it in the right direction.

It spilled into Lee's potion with the softest of splashes.

The result was immediate: a wave of silver smoke fizzled up, twisting upward before bursting with the faint sound of a squeaky hiccup. Lee startled, glaring down at his cauldron as though it had insulted him.

Fred and George busied themselves with their own work, faces saintly.

The hiccup came again- louder this time. Then again. Lee slapped a hand to his chest, his potion bubbling in rhythm with the sound.

"Oi," he muttered under his breath, panic creeping into his voice, "what did I *hic* do wrong?" His hands clasp over his mouth, another squeaky Hiccup muffled beneath this grasp. He raises one hand. "Sir, may I step out?"

"Whatever for?" Snape looks at him, indifferent as always.

George had kept his composure until he saw you. The table in front of his own, you had turned around, eyes raking up and down his body, and meeting his gaze with a smile and the slightest bite of your lip.

Even when you turned back around to continue the assignment, he kept his head craned in your direction.

"Feeling alright, Georgie?"

"Did you see that?"

"What?" Fred looks where his brother is oggling and finds you, of course. "Oh, great, here we go-

The sound of your giggling sounded angelic to him. Your mouth curled into a smile. Your potion was slightly off in colour, hissing at both you and Renata, who laughed beside as the caulron snarled like it was gearing up to bite you.

"Where are you going?" Fred groans.

"To work some Weasley magic." George shrugs, "It's hard to come by, gotta make some use of it." Fred watches his brother approach you and your friend. He expected the two of you to sheepishly dismiss him, but you only egg him on.

"I haven't got a clue what I've done wrong." You laugh, peering into the cauldron, leaning back just as the potion tries to splash you. It's grown a mind of its own. "I followed the instructions, I swear."

"Sure you didn't improvise?" George dipped his head down just enough to meet your eyes.

"No," You look at the recipe once more and think of how you thought to eyeball all of them. "Maybe, somewhat."

George took the spot next to you, his hip brushing yours as he adjusted his weight, eyes still on the cauldron. "Alright," he said, picking up your stirring rod, "what've you done to my poor, innocent potion?"

"Your potion?" you teased, one brow arching.

"Course. You break it, I fix it. Standard Weasley warranty."

"That's awfully generous," You glance down at his hand still tapping against the rod like you were trying to keep your composure. George caught the glance. His grin grew smug. George reached for a little clear vial, he added just a drop.

He stirred, clockwise, then counterclockwise, the mixture's hissing settling to a soft gurgle, a strange sweet smell replacing the acrid sting of burning ingredients.

"See?" he said, giving the cauldron a flourish like he'd just pulled a rabbit out of a hat. "All it needed was a bit of proper handling."

You leaned an elbow on the table, turning your body fully toward him, eyes dragging over him in a way that made him incredibly aware of his appearance. "What do you know about proper handling?"

"Haven't you heard?" He challenges.

"Please, tell me." Your lips curl into a smile.

"Weasley," Draws out Snape, he has returned from interrogating Lee who is now on his way to visit Madam Pomfrey. "Ten points from Gryffindor for distracting other students. Back to your table, now."

He doesn't argue with this; he just walks away, leaving you with one last glance and that trademarked grin of his. Some of the Gryffindors mutter words of disappointment at the loss of points, but he didn't mind one bit. He spent the rest of class with that smug smile.

Chapter Text

The warmth of The Three Broomsticks hit you immediately upon entering, Cedric by your side. The two of you, enraptured in deep conversation the entire walk there, you had tripped over your own heels and talked all the while on the path, dusting debris from your surely bruised knees.

The air was thick with the scent of spiced rum and butterbeer; it was intoxicating. "You ever heard the saying that you can't always get what you want?"

Your eyes scan the pub, looking for ideal seating. It was cramped, but you didn't mind squeezing in next to some friendly strangers. There was a gentle, warm glow that cascaded onto the wood panelling. "Ced, that doesn't apply to me."

It was vacant by the fireplace, no seating right beside it, but you thought it might be nice to warm up on the rug until your eyes caught two ginger heads tucked into a booth. Your eyes fixated on them in an instant. Cedric followed your gaze, then gave a low whistle under his breath. "Do you ever walk into a room and not know half the people in it?"

You smirked. "Doesn't sound like me, does it?"

Before he could protest, you were already weaving through the crowd, Cedric trailing behind with the patience of someone who knew resistance was futile. He had grown accustomed to your antics; the two of you were similar in nature, though you were always more uninhibited.

Their booth was tucked along the wall by a window that overlooked the trail leading back to Hogwarts. Lee sat beside them; it seemed he was mid-story, his hands flailing out wildly. Fred was laughing, a drink steady in his hands, but his smile dropped as he saw you giggling in hushed breaths with Cedric near the entrance. "Those two are always laughing about something," He shakes his head.

George looks back, though he holds a different sentiment: "Bet they say the same of us."

He had made eye contact with you already, solidifying your next move. You come to a stop at their table. "Hello," You smile, "I was just thinking of you three."

Fred arched an eyebrow, still laughing quietly, "Really? I was just thinking of how loud it's suddenly got in here."

"Oh," You lean in slightly, "So you have been talking about me?"

"Won't cram it about you, actually," Lee peeps up. George elbows him under the table, keeping his eyes trained on you.

"All good things, yeah?"

"The best," George says.

"I've been talking about you, too." You let your gaze linger on each of them, words hanging in the air for just a brief moment that hung between you like birds on a wire. You nudge Cedric. "We both have. It's top top-secret strategy."

"Top secret, hm?" Fred tilted his head, lifting his mug but never quite taking a sip. "Sounds like you're planning a coup."

"Oh, we're definitely planning a coup."

"Definitely," Cedric nods.

"Elaborate," George presses.

"You don't want me to catch you alone," You press your lips together, trying to bite back a smile. "Joking, I'd love a moment alone with you." Your eyes flicker from George to Fred, and you reach across the ladder, fingers lightly brushing his sleeve as you point to his mug. "And what are you drinking?" you asked, voice pitched like you were genuinely curious. "You mind?"

"It's-" Fred started, but before the words even left his mouth, you'd already plucked the glass from his hands.

You took a long, unapologetic sip, lips still curved around the rim, while he sat there frozen, mouth half open, eyes wide like he couldn't quite believe you'd just done that in the middle of the Three Broomsticks.

"Mmm," you said, handing it back casually, thumb brushing against his for the briefest moment, "Wow, that's tasty. Pumpkin juice with ginger?"

Fred blinked. "Uh, yeah?"

"Ginger drinking ginger, brilliant."

Fred sat, mouth agape at such brashness. He was outgoing, but he hadn't near thought of taking a swig from someone else's drink. Not even Cedric could hide the horror behind his eyes.

You tug at your jumper, readjusting it as if what you did was something normal. "Thanks for the chat. I think I'll go grab one for myself." With one last wave, you trot on happily, Cedric following in your toe.

Fred stared down at the mug in his hands like it had just become the most interesting thing in the world. Fred leaned in as soon as you were out of earshot. "You alright there, Freddie?" he said.

"Was that weird? That was weird." He glances over to you, ordering happily at the bar, seemingly ordering for Cedric as well.

George clapped him on the shoulder. "Mate, you're gonna have to pick up the pace, don't be so sour."

Fred's ears went pink, but he didn't disagree. "Odd duck, that one."

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It had been the way every other practice had been. Wind harsh enough to prick at the bare skin on your face, you burrowed your face into your sweater while the team gathered, brooms tucked under their arms. You swung your leg over yours, still half-listening to Cedric talk through a defensive formation, when a flash of scarlet across the stadium seats made you frown.

Noisy as always, in truth, you heard them before you saw them. Oliver was at the lead, clipboard in hand, wielding it like it was a sword. He was muttering to himself, eyebrows furrowed down at the board until he gazed up and saw the little hive of bees across the pitch- he stopped in his tracks.

"Er- this is our slot," Cedric calls as Gryffindor marches toward centre pitch.

Oliver lifts his head, brows knitting. "Check again, Diggory, this pitch is ours 'til noon."

"Funny," Cedric counters, tugging the crumpled parchment from his pocket, "because Professor McGonagall signed off on a Hufflepuff practice this morning."

"That's impossible," Oliver scoffs, his voice already a little too loud, the way it always got when he was seconds from a proper row. "We booked this two weeks ago."

Cedric only adjusted his grip on his broom, a polite smile still plastered in place. "And Hufflepuff booked it last month," he said mildly, level-headed as ever.

"No, no- that's not right," Oliver snapped, jabbing a finger at the parchment Cedric held. "Professor McGonagall signs off on the schedule for a reason, Diggory. Someone's clearly mixed up the times."

"Possibly," Cedric agreed easily, voice even. "But it's a nice day, the pitch is empty, and we both need practice. I'm sure we can sort this out without fuss."

The politeness only made Oliver bristle harder, like throwing water on hot oil. "Without fuss?" he barked. "We're a week out from Slytherin, and I'm not giving up a second of pitch time because someone misplaced a bloody quill!"

"Oliver," Cedric said, still maddeningly calm, "we can share the pitch. Do our own drills. No one loses, everyone gets what they need."

"I need my chasers running lengths- not getting tripped up by your meat-gloved dobbers. They look like they've been dookin' for apples in a chip pan."

"Huh?" You wrinkle your nose, trying to make sense of his words. Your teammates looked around at each other, equally lost. Alicia hung her head in her hands at the embarrassment. Angelina turned the other way; she couldn't even watch it.

"Wood," Cedric says, "Your frustration is making you rude."

Fred, barely containing a laugh, muttered to George, "He's so calm about it. It's like watching someone duel a brick wall."

George elbowed him back, eyes still wide. "And the wall's winning."

Oliver threw his hands up. "Rude? Ya' fuckin' spoon. You're smiling while you rob me of practice hours!" Harry shuffled awkwardly behind him.

"I'm smiling," Cedric corrected, infuriatingly polite, "because you seem like you're about to burst a vein over a simple scheduling error. I'd hate for Madam Pomfrey to have to explain to Professor McGonagall that her Keeper collapsed from indignation."

There is a quiet animosity that simmers between them, even though Cedric is playing kind- you can tell he is seething. There's a foot between them; half of you thinks they might throw a fist, the other half thinks they might kiss, and it's this notion that makes you giggle to yourself.

"We'll share the pitch," Cedric says, voice firm.

Oliver looks like he wants to say something, maybe chew him out, call him some more names no one understood, but he bites his tongue and says, "We'll share the pitch."

"We'll share the pitch!" You repeated loud enough for everyone to hear, you said it like it was your idea, and everyone sat silent. Cedric turns back to look at you. He shakes his head and mouths something that you can't make out. At least it was time to play.

Despite all of the breathless laughter that ensued, there still hung enmity in the air every time Oliver caught a glimpse of yellow beneath him. Cedric had your team running drills on the ground while there was a scrimmage that raged above you like a storm.

They were everywhere at once, quaffles tossing to and fro like wasps defending their nest. "Nice catch, Johnson!" you hollered, clapping like you were in the stands. "Ever thought the sorting hat meant to put you in Hufflepuff?"

Fred zoomed past, nearly clipping Harry's shoulder as he chased a Bludger. "Do you ever stop talking?" he called, exasperated but amused.

You and the rest of your team are running lines back and forth on the pitch by Cedric's instruction. They are sweaty and breathless beneath black and yellow Quidditch jumpers but you seem perfectly unaffected, talking as loudly and clearly as you would in potions. "Once I got the black cat flu, and my throat swelled so much I couldn't speak. It was so gross I was throwing up everywhere!"

"Does anyone know where there's an outbreak?" Fred mutters, lips upturned.

Even Cedric, usually the calm centre of any storm, couldn't keep the smile off his face as he shouted after you, "Focus, please- just a little?"

"Ced, this is me focusing," But the truth was, your chaos had infected everyone. "Wood," you said conversationally, eyes sparkling as you looked up, "You ever try setting a false formation to bait a Chaser into open air?"

He eyed you suspiciously, then shifted his gaze to Cedric. "Diggory, be a captain. She's the loudest thing I've ever heard; I'm nearly deaf."

"My grandparents are nearly deaf! They're hermits, and they live way off in the mountains because they're doomsday preppers and they're anticipating the end of the world, it's way off in the middle of nowhere. Well- I guess I shouldn't say too much, but my granddad definitely has some very cool instruments."

While your team was used to your constant babbling on the pitch, the Gryffindor team definitely wasn't. It felt like the only time you could ramble on without getting shushed by a teacher, and how you loved to talk to each one of your teammates.

It was background noise to just about everyone in your house. You would sit in the common room, floating from group to group and inserting yourself into their conversations.

"Eyes forward, Weasley!" you shouted, grinning.

Distracted by you, Fred nearly missed the Bludger hurtling toward him. George swerved to knock it away, but in the process, his broom clipped Fred's tail.

"Bloody-!" was all Fred got out before his broom jolted, sending him tumbling. You didn't even realize he was hurrying towards you, broom already lost in the air.

Your back was faced to him, running lines next to Whitlock, who was viciously out of breath, you were babbling at random, unbeknownst to either of you that Fred was falling, and the Gryffindor team had just caught on to what happened. "Why don't I trust the ministry? I- well, I actually can't answer-

The impact was brutal. You hit the ground first, face smacking on one of the lower stands with a sickening crack as your face collided with the edge of the railing. The world rang in your ears. Warm blood gushed from your nose, your jaw ached terribly, and your vision blurred. You rolled onto your back with a hiss, clutching your face.

It didn't connect in your brain what was happening right away. It all seemed to be a hazy blur of yelling and panic. You tilt your head to the side, from the bright grey sky to the grassy pitch where George lies, clutching his ribs- the wind knocked out of him, he gasps like he's drowning.

There seemed to be little pearls lying in the grass; upon further examination, they were not pearls but teeth. You wonder if they are yours or Fred's, but when you run your tongue along raw, bloodied gums, you come to the conclusion they are, in fact, yours.

Cedric rushes to your side, eyes wide as he takes in the scene. "What's- holy shit." Fred is breathless, panting, and you lay beside him, eyes watery, hand covering what is surely a broken nose.

"Do you fink it's broken?" You ask, moving your hand away to display the nose. The nasal bone itself felt little it had been torn in half. What rang as even more concerning was the gash over it that was leaking blood.

Cedric gags, looking away for a moment to compose himself before he answers, "Definitely."

"It can't be that bad." There's a slight lisp to your words, gargled by the blood and the apparent lack of teeth as they were resting beside you on the pitch. "Ced, care to help me find my teef?"

George came tearing down from the sky, skidding across the grass, panic painted all over his face. "What in Merlin's name-? Fred, what did you do?!"

"Me?" Fred spat blood into the grass, rolling to his side. "Your ruddy broom clipped mine!"

Oliver barks something out at his team, and there are gentle, hushed words that fill your ears. Hands were on you before you had even blinked the stars from your vision. Someone-Alicia, maybe, ducked under your arm, trying to hoist you upright.

The moment your weight shifted, agony ripped through your face and chest, sharp and blinding. A guttural scream tore out of you before you could stop it. Alicia froze, eyes wide, and eased you back down to the grass like you were made of glass.

You collapsed against the pitch, gasping, tears burning hot down your cheeks. For a heartbeat, silence pressed in heavy; broken noses and missing teeth weren't unusual in Quidditch, but the scream had rattled everyone, even more so- the laughter that followed.

It bubbled up between hiccupped sobs, muffled by the blood clogging your throat. You clutched your stomach, trembling with it, a half-delirious cackle that only made the tears stream harder.

"Ow," you wheezed, blood running over your lip. "That's awful, that is."

"Awful?!" George's voice cracked, half horror, half disbelief. He dropped to his knees beside you, face pale. "You're laughing? Love, you're-"

Fred, still curled on the ground with one arm tight over his ribs, lifted his head and winced. "She's fine," he croaked, voice hoarse with pain. "If she can laugh, she's fine."

"I'm not fine," you corrected, another laugh bubbling up through the tears, "I'm horrible. But- yeah, it's horrible." You dissolved into another fit of giggles, tears streaking your dirt-smeared cheeks.

George ran both hands through his hair, looking ready to throttle either you or Fred. "Completely mental."

Fred gave a weak grin, every breath clearly costing him. "Completely."

"Utterly," you agreed, hiccupping, nose throbbing as blood continued to drip down your chin.

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The infirmary smelled strongly of antiseptic, and a little stinging of smoke hung in the hair to mingle with it. The torches burn low, casting more shadow than light- it made for a truly eerie atmosphere while your and Fred's shallow breathing was the only sound that filled it. You were lying on a stiff cot, a flimsy piece of fabric covered your body in the place of a blanket.

A dull throbbing ache hums in tune with your heartbeat. There was no sleeping, not with the immense pain you were in, but still, you could not find the words. They had managed to repair your teeth after Cedric and Whitlock had searched for the remains on the pitch; they had been mended back together with Madam Pomfrey's expertise; however, you did have one particularly dreadful stitch in your gums that dug into your lip every time you closed your mouth.

Fred Weasley shifts in the bed beside yours, the beds so close you could reach out and touch the iron bars between them. His hair is mussed, curls sticking damp to his temple, a faint smear of dried blood along his jaw skidded along the ground. He should be sleeping off the concussion Madam Pomfrey muttered about, but you hear him stir, the cot creaking as he turns his head toward you.

"Never heard you so quiet," he says, his voice a little hoarse, pitched just low enough for only you to hear. He had cracked his ribs in the fall, dislocating his shoulder, which had been set right back in place. Even with this, they strapped him into a brace that crossed his tonedd chest.

You try to look at him, but the motion of moving your head hurts, so you give up halfway. "Hurts too much," you groan, and even the sound scrapes your throat raw.

A pause. Then, softer, a hint of guilt tucked into the words: "That'd be my fault, then."

You don't answer, and the silence feels heavier for it. You hate silence. Normally, you'd fill it with chatter, with nonsense, with anything to keep the air bright, but every word is a blade digging into your ribs- trying to separate them. "Actions speak louder than words. But- I suppose you're limited in both categories."

"I'm not limited at all," You say, though you stiffly stare at the cold ceiling.

"Right, is that so?" He quirks a brow. It's better to hear you speak, even if it had nearly driven him up the wall in potions when anyone aside from him was waffling on.

"Sure is, I could do a dozen cartwheels if I wanted to."

"I'd love to see it."

"I said if I wanted to. Maybe later."

"I'll keep an eye out."

You turn your head on the pillow, just enough to catch him in your periphery. His freckles stand out starkly against pale skin, his brow creased deeper than usual. Guilt still clings to him, shadowing the edges of his smirk. He's trying, you know he is. Joking, for your sake. Because you're quiet, and you're never quiet, and it scares him.

In truth, Fred knew he was somewhat at fault for this incident and had been trying to ease his guilt. The ceiling above you blurs as you blink hard, the ache in your ribs steady as a drum. "You're a menace," you rasp, voice splintering. "Shouldn't be allowed near a broom."

"I happen to be the sharpest flyer this school has ever seen."

"You also have the sharpest rib fracture this school has ever seen."

He lets out a long, dramatic sigh, but there is the slightest smile on his face. "If I weren't so weak and feeble, I might fight you for saying that."

"You would lose."

"Lose?" His laugh fills the space between you; it's rough and coarse. "I've been losing to you since the day we met. Haven't you noticed?"

"I have noticed. I must say, you didn't have to throw yourself from the skies to sleep next to me. You can get a lot of places by asking." You take a deep, steady breath, eyes threatening to shut, but the pain searing in you fought them open.

He shifts, the bedsprings squeaking, and when you glance over, he's propped on his elbow, hair a fiery halo in the dim torchlight. "In that case- care for a sleepover?"

"I'm sure we already have another week of them." You want to stretch, but your body feels as though it's been condensed, and you have as much dexterity as a rusted hinge. His face is soft, even softer in the flicker of dim light. Shirtless and bandaged, he looks like he's been wounded in combat. "You actually look quite handsome all bandaged up like that. My fallen soldier."

A smile slips onto his face, and all of the guilt is gone. "Are you going to come and nurse me back to health?"

"I'm a fallen soldier myself."

"Thought you were unlimited?"

"And I thought you were a gentleman, but you've gone and injured me twice now."

"Forgive me?" He says it like a plea, eyes staring into you.

You sigh all dramatic and sink into the rigid cot. "One day."

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You and Fred had grown closer in the three nights you had stayed in the infirmary; he seemed to be better off than you, as you had to stay an extra night under the watch of Madam Pomfrey. After she had poked around in your mouth and inspected your ribs, they were released and jumping everywhere like a newborn fawn.

While joking all those nights ago, you really felt like you could do a dozen cartwheels. The Great Hall was alive with chatter, silverware clinking against plates, owls swooping down with he morning post. In your elation, you ran straight into one.

A little barn owl with a heart-shaped face, its talons caught in your hair, it squeaked and yelped as you swatted at it. A beak bit your fingers, and you pulled your hair from its grasp or tried to at least. In truth, you were in a sissy fight with an owl until it finally unlatched its talons from your mop of hair and glided off to join its friends.

You continue, no matter the odd stares or confused glances. You spot the back of Cedric's head on the way over, but pause upon recognizing a group of red-cloaked students. Angelina looks at you, brows furrowed in concern, "Are you alright?" She is referring to the owl, of course, but you have already forgotten about that.

"I'm so good!" You smile brightly, pointing at your mouth, "I can smile again!"

You climb over the bench, wedging yourself between both her and Lee. It was always a common occurrence for you to sit at a table that did not belong to you. You grab a goblet of pumpkin juice in the centre of the table, taking it to your lips and drinking without a bother of who it belonged to.

"That's good to see," Angelina smiles politely, cutting off a piece of her fried egg.

"Gosh you look stunning though! Have you done something new?" You grasp her chin in your hand, tilting her face this way and that like you're inspecting a priceless jewel. "Look at you! What do you even do for your skin, bathe in unicorn tears? No- don't tell me, I'll just be jealous."

She seems caught off guard for a moment, but ultimately succumbs to the flattery; she shifts her eyes to not make contact. "It's some muggle cream, my mom sent it in the post."

"A muggle cream? I guess it's just you then." You release your gentle hold on her face, taking another swig of pumpkin juice.

Heat rises to her face, a meek little smile like she shudders from the attention. "Thanks."

"Gosh, Lee, you should've seen me." You whip your head to look at him. "I was all bloodied, my face was smashed, so nasty! You would've loved it, I think."

"It was pretty scary," Angelina confirms. "Fred's huge self slammed into her, could've killed her."

You nod vigorously. "This," You point at the bandage over your almost healed nose, "Was sideways nearly, if you can believe it."

"I'd believe it, there's not a soul safe around those two."

Fred and George arrived together, sliding onto the bench across from you, both watching the way you animatedly waved your hands through the air. "What two?" Fred sits across from you, immediately reaching for the eggs Benedict and taking a massive bite.

"Us two?" George asks, and he settles for a glass of water.

The two of them weren't looking very alive. Their hair was tousled, Fred more than his brothers. George's tie was crooked, while Fred was missing his entirely. "Of course, you two," Angelina says, "That was almost manslaughter the other day."

"Keyword: almost," Fred winks at her.

Your hand darted across the table to grab Fred's wrist, tugging his sleeve higher. "Look at this! You've still got Pomfrey's salve all over you. Honestly, Fred, have you showered since you left the infirmary?"

Fred tried for a dry retort, but his ears betrayed him, going pink as you rubbed at the streak of ointment with your thumb. George cleared his throat loudly. "Of course not."

You didn't miss a beat. Your eyes sparkled as you leaned across, plucking a napkin and swiping it across his mouth, thumb brushing the corner of his lip. "Like you're better off. Hollandaise," you murmured, matter-of-fact, dabbing until his mouth was clean.

George froze, stiff as a board, pulse hammering in his throat. You pulled back like it was nothing, tossing the napkin onto your plate and resuming your conversation with Lee.

The twins exchanged a look, both caught somewhere between what just happened and I will murder you if you grin.

"Anyway," you continued, turning your attention back across the table. "Y'know, I guarantee Angelina could beat both of you at exploding snaps." You tapped Fred's hand where it rested near your plate, then reached out and squeezed George's fingers for emphasis. "Both of you. Together."

Angelina shakes her head. "Don't drag me into this."

"You don't need dragging," you teased. "You'll do it just to humble them."

Fred and George were no longer listening to anyone else. Their eyes tracked every flick of your wrist, every casual brush of your touch, every dazzling grin that didn't seem to belong to just one of them.

"Exploding Snap tonight, then?" you said brightly, as though it were already decided. "Winner gets a case of butterbeer. Fair's fair."

Fred smirked, leaning forward. "I don't lose."

George's lips curved, slow and deliberate- he glances at his brother. "Neither do I."

"Right, then that's set," You fiddle with the napkin in front of you, folding it into some incoherent animal. You glanced up, spotting a knot of your Slytherin friends gathered at their table, waving you over enthusiastically. One of them beckons you, and you recall how she had something allegedly detrimental to tell you. "Oh- there they are," you chirped, gathering yourself.

Fred frowned. "You're abandoning us?"

"Temporarily," you said with a grin. Then, with the kind of boldness that made Fred and George's stomachs twist, you leaned over, planting a quick kiss on Angelina's cheek- she doesn't seem particularly fazed by this despite knowing you only from Divination and the occasional Quidditch game. "Thanks for breakfast company, loves," you said brightly, rising to your feet.

The twins watch as you leave, how you wave at just about everyone, face too animated. "Why didn't I get a kiss?" Fred asks.

"Don't be gross," Angelina answers.

Chapter Text

Your footsteps seemed exponentially louder at night. Your head twisted at every sound, like it may be a professor ready to throw you into detention. It was worth it of course, you had rambled on long into the night with Cho and Claire, soaked in blue moonlight, cozied up on their persian carpets.

You very obviously, were not allowed in there but you often ended up in places you did not belong. It was easy to sneak around, for you at the least. Most everyone knew you but after so much resistance had stopped fighting on the front that you wanted to be friends with everyone. You egged on Cho's ambitions all until fatigue has pushed her and Claire to yawn and firght weary eyes to stay open.

That was your sign to beat it back to your dorms and let them succumb to sleep. Now you walk, tugging at your skirt as you go to keep it from riding up. You would return to your bed, surrounded by warm walls and golden engravings. You would wonder who slept in the same room centuries ago, how she too might braid her friends hair and cast away evenings developing bonds just to let her studies waste away.

Parchment and quills would remain on your bedside tomorrow, but you may never share the stream of laughter you did that night. What might you do when you return to your dorm? Will you wake your roommates and beg of them to play exploding snaps with you or delve into muggle books you've borrowed from Colin who was thrilled to share with you, pleading desperately for a report of your thoughts once you had finished it.

It sounded nice.

You're disrupted from your thoughts the moment you hear loud footsteps approaching, hushed voices exchanging words. There wasn't a place to hide, not even a plant to conceal your body. You swerve your head, looking around the corridor- only a door. You jolt for it, hands wrapping around the handle- you turn it to n avail.

So it was locked, and you stood there fighting it, shaking it back and forth. "What are you doing?" A voice asks.

"I've left my assignment in there-" You turn around, relief washes over you t see two lanky boy "Oh, hi Fred, hi George."

"You left your assignment in there?" George quirks an eyebrow.

"No, of course not, I'm lying."

"Very noble of you to come clean," Fred says.

"Thank you, I've always been quite noble," You say with a smile, any bit of worry vanished withut a trace "What are you doing at this hour?"

"We've had to retrieve something of ours from Filch's office," Fred raises his hand to show you a piece of folded parchment in hs grasp. His face is smug, a shit-eating grin but you stare, confounded.

"Parchment? I could've lended you some," Your eyebrows knit together.

"It's not any piece of parchment," George adds.

"It's the secret to our success really."

"What success?" You ask "You study with it?"

"When have you ever seen us study? We're too smart already, it's no use." Fred was no longer in his uniform as you were, now a knitted sweater, similar to his brother. Granted, there was no time to change as you spent the day driifting back and forth between friends. "George, if you would."

George yanks out his want from the band of his jeans, he raises it and speaks "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." He taps the map and red ink bleeds out, spreading across the blank parchment into an intricately wound labyrinth that seemed to be Hogwarts.

"What?" You peer forward at the map, gingerly taking it from George's hands without asking. "Padfoot? Wormtail? What shoddy names." Yours eyes scanned the map, there must have been unimaginable care put into it. It was incredibly intricate; it showed each and every part of Hogwarts, every name of anyone set foot inside of the castle. "Wait, does this show-

"Where everyone is? Yes," George answers before you can even finish yout thought.

You gasp "Fiona and Louie are alone in the clock tower!"

"They usually are," Fred shrugs, studdying your surprised expression with pride.

"So you've been stalking me?" You ask- this is answered by blank dumb-founded expressions "You knew I was roaming about and you've come to find me?"

"Bollocks, we're headed back to the dorms ourselves," Fred articulated, waving you off.

"Well, I don't believe you. No shame in wanting spend time with me. If you're on the way back from Filch's office, it would make more sense to go-" You trail off, eyes surveying the map, you see the footsteps f Mrs. Norris approaching the three of you and fast. "Nevermind, you best be off."

Quickly you shove the map back into Fred's hands before turning and running in the direction of your common room, hopiing to make it before Filch is alerted of your whereabouts. The muscles of your legs worked beneath you beneath you, shoes barely gripping the ancient stone steps that spiraled down into the bowels of the castle.

The stairs were terribly steep and the passage lay dark, still they were the only way to your salvation. The stairwell was cold, it smelled damp and wet from the rain pouring outside and the centuries old stone you were incased in.

There's quick steps behind you, the twins as you could hear their bickering over your shallow breaths. A lantern light bobbed off in the distance, swing wildly in pursuit of the three of you. The toe of your shoe snagged on the worn edge of a step. For one breathless second, you pitched forward, arms flailing in the dark as gravity claimed you.

The breath was knocked from your lungs, body flailing, falling, down one step-two steps and so on. You came to a dizzying hault at the landing of the stairs, dragging yourself up with burning palms, Fred snickering behind you. "Oi!" Fred's voice cracked, closer than you expected. He skidded down after you, George at his heels.

"Keep going!" You hissed, trapeezing down the stairs, keeping one hand on the railing to keep you steady and prevent another blow to you dignity. At last you see the end of the steps, feet connecting with solid ground once more.

Filch's scampering was quick to follow. Fred looks down at the map, eyes narrowing in the torchlight. "This way!" Fred hissed, darting left without another word. His twin, however, seized your wrist.

"No, this way!" Fred tugged you down a side corridor, your shoes skidding against the flagstones as you tried to keep up. You could feel the heat of his palm around yours, steady despite the chaos. His laughter bubbled out in gasps between breaths, the kind of reckless joy only the twins could find in being chased.

"I think we lost him-" you whispered once the shouting grew faint.

George slowed, glancing over his shoulder, but before he could agree, a lantern's glow swelled at the far end of the passage. Filch's voice muttered curses as he rounded the corner.

George didn't hesitate. He wrenched open the nearest door and shoved you both inside. It shut with a soft click, plunging you into pitch-black silence. A broom closet.

The air was warm and stale, heavy with the smell of polish and bristles. Your bodies pressed flush together in the dark, the wood of the door digging into your back, George's chest against yours, his breath shallow and uneven by your ear.

"Comfortable?" you murmured, grinning even though he couldn't see it.

"Undoubetdly" he whispered back, his voice pitched low. His hand, braced against the wall beside your head, his hand still rested on your waist from the moment he pulled you in. He froze instantly, muscles tightening. The dust of the closet tickledd your nose, you sniffled to refrain from sneezing.

You tilted your face up toward George, your lips brushing so close to his jaw that your whisper hummed against his skin. You could feel his fingers digging into the plush of your waist "Y'know, I'm starting to question your motives."

He released his grip on you, hand running through his hair instead "Forgive me for not trying to get caught. Didn't think broom closets were prime courting grounds."

You giggled, not sensing the weight in his tone. You were always touchy, always leaning into people, your hands quick to grab shoulders or arms without thinking. Now, in the dark, you reached for his sleeve, brushing dust off as though it mattered. "Bit romantic, actually. Candlelight, secrecy, the threat of being caught..."

George quirked an eyebrow that you couldn't quick see the skepticism on his face. He could never tell where the line was drawn with you, what was said with intention and what simply fell from your lips. "You call this romantic? You've got low standards."

You pressed a hand to his chest playfully, steadying yourself against him as your knee gave a little twinge. "You'd be surprised what I call romantic." Your words were light, teasing, though you only meant them as banter. You reached up instinctively, brushing dust from his hair where he'd slammed the door shut a moment ago. "Hold still," you murmured, fingertips grazing his temple as if you'd done it a thousand times.

George's heart stopped. "If you keep doing things like that," he said lowly, "I'll start thinking you actually like me."

You snorted quietly, cupping his face to check if you'd missed any dust. "Course I like you, George. You're one of my favourites." Your hands lingered a beat too long, warm against his jaw before you dropped them. You shifted closer in the tight space, your hip brushing his. "I haven't thanked you for coming to my rescue earlier," you said sheepishly, resting a hand on his chest as though to steady yourself against your own apology. "Reckon I owe you one."

His throat goes dry, eyes flickering to the coy smile on your lips. "Owe me one, do you?" He fought to keep his voice even.

"Mhm," you hummed, smiling in the dark. "I'll make it up to you. Maybe sneak you a pasty from the kitchens. Or another broom closet adventure? We'll see," You laughed, clearly joking.

George's grin nearly split his face. He leaned in, eyes glinting even in the shadows. "Are you trying to seduce me?" There was a light and airy lilt to his voice.

"Is it working?" You give him a challenging look but dismiss it at once "Joking of course, I haven't got the patience for that." You swat at his chest playfully.

He caught your wrist gently before you could pull back, thumb brushing your knuckles in the dark. "Could've fooled me," he murmured.

You only laughed again, entirely unbothered by how close his face hovered. "Consider yourself fooled." And then, you gently yank your wrist free from his grasp, reaching up and straightened his collar, your fingers brushing his throat.

George thought he might combust. Every little touch sent sparks racing under his skin, yet you carried on with that same easy warmth, blissfully unaware of the storm you were stirring up inside him.

The footsteps outside faded completely, leaving only the sound of your mingled breathing in the cramped space. You shifted slightly, squeezing his arm with a grin. "Think it's safe to make a run for it?"

George swallowed hard, struggling to form words. "Safe? Not a chance." His voice came out rougher than he intended.

"Not safe?" you tilted your head in the dark, smiling. "What, are you scared of Filch?"

"No," George muttered, eyes locked on the shape of you in the dim light. "Scared of you."

You blinked, tilting your head, confused. "Me? Why?"

George only laughed softly, shaking his head. "Never mind."

"Don't be scared, you're in safe hands."

"Sure I am."

"Doubtful?"

"Not at all."

"That's what I like to hear." You can practically feel the heat radiating off him. You're burning up," you murmured suddenly, pressing your palm to his cheek like you were checking for fever. "Are you alright?"

"Not even remotely," George croaked, his hands balling into fists at his sides before he dared to steady himself against the wall behind you, caging you in without meaning to.

You beamed at him, entirely oblivious, brushing his hair back with a featherlight touch. "You'd tell me if you were sick, yeah?" You ask, voice soft as cashmere.

"Trust me," he said lowly, eyes flicking to your lips before darting back up, "I'm not sick."

You laughed again, breathless this time, and tugged at his sleeve. "You're so strange. Nervous, are you?"

"Maybe I am," he admitted, his voice husky, and for the first time, your smile faltered, the air between you shifting, charged, as though even you couldn't quite ignore the heat of his stare anymore.

Your hand drifted from his sleeve to his forearm, thumb brushing along his wrist. You were close enough now that he could feel your breath on his skin, sweet and warm.

"George..." you started, a hint of curiosity in your tone. His restraint snapped. He leaned in, lips barely a hair's breadth from yours, and you didn't move away, you stayed right there, wide-eyed, your hand still on his arm.

Then- the door is yanked open. Fred stares blankly at the two of you entangled. He looks ragged, Marauders Map in hand.

You blinked against the sudden light, then broke into a smile, utterly unbothered, slipping out past Fred as though you hadn't nearly kissed him at all. "Fred! Perfect timing. Do you know how stuffy it is in there? I think I've inhaled a cobweb."

George scrubbed a hand through his hair, face hot, but Fred didn't miss the way his twin's eyes trailed after you, didn't miss the glow in his expression that looked far too much like want. It twisted in Fred's gut. He snapped the map shut, plastering on a grin sharp enough to cut. He knew well how he felt from that first Quidditch game, all of the times his brother brought you up before hand and the thought made him bite the inside of his cheek to flood his mouth with the taste of iron. "Am I interrupting?"

"Not at all!" Your hand rises to grab Fred's arm, squeezing it with a light jest he just stares down his brother. "You made it out alright?"

"Yeah, Filch is off in the courtyard."

"Oh, Godric bless you!" You cradle his face in your hands and press a kiss to his freckled cheek on tip toes. You glance down the hallway, the door to the Hufflepuff common room just at the end of it. "How late is it? Never the matter, I best be off. Need to get my beauty sleep."

You leave without another word, bounding happily toward the barrel door that led to your common room and to your peaceful night of rest. Their eyes trailed on you as you slip from their sight completely.

Fred was already leaning against the wall, arms folded, a smirk playing at his lips. "You going to stand there all night, Georgie, or shall I fetch you a chair?"

George shot him a look. "Oh, shut it."

"Shut it?" Fred arched a brow, stepping closer. "You were two seconds away from snogging her in a broom closet. Do you have any idea how cliché that is? Next thing, you'll be scribbling her name in the margins of your notes."

George's ears went red, but he held his chin high. "Nothing happened."

"Not for lack of trying," Fred muttered, shoving off the wall. He paced a little, hands shoved deep in his pockets, voice casual but sharp. "You're grinning like you've just struck gold, and all because she held your arm and fluttered her lashes. Honestly, it's pathetic."

George bristled, following him. "Oh, come on, you're imagining things. She's just-" he hesitated, words fumbling, "she's just like that with everyone. Touchy. Friendly."

Fred whipped back around, his smirk still there, but tight at the edges. "Exactly. She's like that with everyone. You think you're special because she brushes your sleeve or laughs at your awful jokes? She does that with half the castle, Georgie." That name, it seemed friendly then but infantalizing now.

Something in George's chest went cold, but he fired back anyway, unwilling to give ground. "And what's it to you, eh? You jealous?"

Fred's smile faltered for the briefest flicker of a second before he barked a laugh, masking it with bravado. "Jealous? Please. I'd rather kiss Dumbledore. I just don't fancy watching you make a fool of yourself."

But his voice carried that taut undercurrent, a bite Fred couldn't miss.

George narrowed his eyes. "You've got a funny way of saying you like her."

Frred's smirk was back in an instant, but his jaw clenched hard enough to crack. He clapped George on the shoulder- harder than necessary. "Sleep it off, brother. You'll wake up tomorrow and realise she's just another pretty face, like you always do."

George shrugged him off, muttering, "We'll see."

Fred walked ahead, shoulders stiff, fists jammed deep in his pockets. George followed, fighting the flush on his face but the ghost of your laughter haunted him evermore, he was sure he would see it in each dream and every single nightmare.

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The Gryffindor common room was surprisingly quiet for a Saturday evening. The fire crackled low, it cast a warm honeyed light into the room and whatever students remain, laying lazily beside it and bathing in it's warmth. You were stretched out on the couch like a cat in a sunbeam, head pillowed in George's lap, legs tossed languidly over Fred's as if he were nothing more than a convenient footrest.

It felt perfectly right to you. In your mind touch was the ultimate way to show human connection. But if you'd noticed the way George's hand froze halfway through adjusting the blanket, or how Fred's shoulders tensed beneath your shins, you didn't mention it. It wasn't as natural for everyone.

"You're hogging all the space," Fred said at last, though his tone lacked bite. His hand brushed your calf as he pretended to shove your legs off, but the touch lingered a moment too long.

You smirked, closing your eyes. "I'm comfortable. And you're both warm. So really, you're doing me a favour."

George snorted above you. "We're cushions now, Fred. Downgraded from genuis extraordinaire to her personal furniture."

"Could be worse," Fred shot back. "I've seen how she treats her actual cushions- crumbs everywhere, ink stains-"

Your foot nudged his ribs, lazy but sharp enough to cut him off. "Careful, Weasley. Keep talking and I'll use you as a quill rest."

George chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and into your ear. His fingers had found their way to idly comb through your hair, absent-minded, but every so often they stilled, as if he realised what he was doing. Then, just as quickly, they'd continue, more careful now.

Fred's hand had stilled too, resting heavy against your shin. His thumb tapped absently against your knee, a rhythm so faint you might not have noticed if not for the way it quickened whenever you shifted, your skirt brushing higher against your thigh.

Neither twin said anything about the other. Neither acknowledged the way the silence thickened, crackling sharper than the fire at your feet.

You opened your eyes, glancing from one freckled face to the other. "You two look awfully serious all of a sudden. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," they said at once, voices overlapping.

"I would argue but, I'm much too tired," You sigh dramatically. "I think it's time I go back to my dorm." You stretch, feline-like.

"I'll walk you," The twins said in unison, snapping their heads to look at one another. You push yourself up and raise your arms to the ceiling for another drawn out stretch.

"I can walk myself."

"What if Filch catches you again?" Fred asks, leaning into you.

"Filch never caught me."

"You don't know what kind of git's could be up at this hour," George adds.

"Gits like yourself," You huff a laugh, but it's shallow, you are exponentially languid and yearning for your bed. You rise to your feet slowly.

"No, I'll take you," George said just as quickly, stepping forward "I know the way."

"So do I," Fred peeps, standing up.

"Believe it or not, I know the way back to my dorms." You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow at the both of them.

"I know you're perfectly capable, it would just put my mind at ease," Fred lays this on thick and sweet like honey.

"Bollocks, he just wants to brag," George says "Let me take you."

You glance between them "Honestly, you two are ridiculous. I'm fine, really. I'm no treasure."

Fred's grin falters for a split second, then broadens. "Treasure, eh? Well, if I were guarding a treasure, I'd be very careful." His tone was smooth, teasing, but there was an edge to it that made your stomach flutter.

George rolled his eyes, stepping closer, fingers brushing the sleeve of your robe ever so lightly. "Careful? Ha! She's safer with me. Unlike some people who find their way into every pair of trousers they stumble across."

You shuffle uncomfortably, eyebrows drawing in a sincere manner. "Oh, please," you say, tilting your head. "It's getting late, and I really do need my bed. Can't we all just get along?"

Fred leans toward you, eyes glinting, voice suddenly low, smooth as silk: "I can guarantee your night will be safer with me. I'd look after you, every step of the way."

George's jaw tightens, and he steps closer, brushing your shoulder accidentally- or maybe not. "I'd do the same, Freddie. I'd make sure nothing or no one bothers her. So really, she's better with me."

"What do I think? Thank you for asking," You interrupt them, noticebly irritable. Their faces drop like kicked puppies. "I think you two are infuriating and I don't know what's gotten between you bbut you have to sort it out." That was the honesty that got you sorted into Hufflepuff "I'm going to bed and I'm going alone."

You grab your cardigan where it was draped over the ottoman and leave at once, you never even glanced back. Some students watched the retreat whispering in hushed tones. George looks at his brother "Look, you've gone and made everything about yourself again."

"You were drooling over her all night, you wonder she's left," Fred reports.

George's jaw twitched. "Drooling? I was being polite! I was—"

"Polite?" Fred cut him off, voice rising. "Polite is letting her go back alone. Polite is pretending you're just trying to help when we both know you wanted to make her notice you! That's not polite. That's idiotic."

"Funny you say, that- you knew I liked her and all of a sudden you're intrested, because you can't let me have anything, can you?"

Fred stills at this. They had kept their voices low enough that the other students wouldn't hear the subject matter but it was clear to all they were banging heads. "That's what you think? When have I not shared with you?"

"You can't share a girl, you git," George's fist was clenched so tight he was nearly breaking the skin of his palms.

"You two are making great fools of yourself," Angelina says from her table, her head is hung over an assignment, Alicia beside her- the both of them regard the twins with nasty looks. They look at her and a certain shame settles in.

"Whatever you've said to her, it's pathetic." Alicia adds, nonchalantly, she barely looks up from her notes like they weren't even worth her time.

Fred sputtered, opening his mouth, then closing it, glaring daggers at Alicia before spinning to George. "She doesn't understand! No one understands how-"

"Enough, Fred!" George barked, jabbing a finger at him. "You're embarrassing yourself!"

The two continued to jab and argue, words overlapping, voices rising ever so slightly despite their attempts to be subtle. Each accusation, each rebuttal, only fueled the other's frustration.

Finally, with a growl of frustration, Fred threw up his hands. "I can't even- You're impossible, George. Absolutely impossible."

George mirrored him, breathing hard, fists still clenched. "Fine. Go ahead, Freddie. Keep acting like the fool. I'm done!"

"Go then! Go be a twat away from me and keep writing love poems for a girl whose already got a million!"

"You're fucking clueless," He takes a step towards Fred. "As soon as I get a good thing, you want it to."

"She didn't even know who you were until I cracked her in the ribs," Fred chastised, his voice raising.

"Right and you've hurt her so now you want to conquer her as well?"

"I'm not trying to conquer anyone-

"Anyone? Like every other girl you've shagged- you've given so much respect."

"Like every girl you wish you've shagged," Fred presses.

George opens his mouth to say something else but he closes it, biting the inside of his cheek instead. "Prick," He mutters and turns away from him. His feet carry him back to the dorms while Fred stand there, soaking in all of the vexation.

Chapter Text

You were only a few drinks in as the ceiling glittered like it was built from true stars. Hazey golden light poured from lantern strewn about the room of requirements and you were in the midst of it all, warm bodies careening into one of another beneath the fog of music. Students crowded every corner, drinks in hand. It wasn't often everyone got along like this, but when it rained- it poured.

When Fred Weasley entered- he had only one goal in mind and he didn't come for the goal of getting wasted or socializing, he came for you. His skin was still buzzing with all of the adrenaline from the days Quidditch game against Slytherin where Gryffindor had turned out victorious and you where no where in the crowd.

He had spotted you instantly, you had a way of sticking out in a room. Your posture was languid and effortless, leaning back in a chair, head tossed back in laughter with some students he recognized from Slytherin and Hufflepuff both. Your arms were drapped over their shoulders like you were the queen and they were answering to every calling of yours. Your laughter carried across the rom, slipping beneath his skin where it belonged.

He wove through a throng of students, ducking past classmates flailing wildly to the music. He side-stepped one Ravenclaw who clearly didn't have the wit to call it when drinking. Through it all his eyes didn't part from you. He watched you take one smooth drag from a joint, the smoke rolling out from your lips before you pass it to the girl across from you.

By the time he reached you, his grin was wide, cheeky, but his pulse thrummed hard enough to rattle his ribcage. He leaned down, hands braced against the back of the sofa just behind your shoulders, caging you in without quite touching.

"Well," he drawled, voice pitched low enough that only you could hear above the din, "seems the party finally got interesting."

Your head tilted up to him, eyes glinting with surprise and amusement, lips already quirking. "Oh? And what exactly made it interesting, Weasley?"

Fred's grin widened, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your smile. "You already know."

"Take a seat, love!" You scooch to the side, leaving just enough space for him to wedge himself between you and the arm of the sofa. Any animosity had been lost, you were so warm and fuzzy.

Fred didn't fight, this is what he wanted after all. His arm settled behind you, hand finding your waist as though it belonged there. Warmth radiated through the fabric of your dress, steady and grounding, but his touch was anything but casual. It was a claim.

You were mid-laugh at something the boy beside you had just said, your hand briefly resting on his shoulder. Fred's eyes cut to him, sharp as a hex. The boy's smile faltered almost immediately under the weight of Fred's glare, and he leaned back, suddenly remembering he had a drink to nurse.

Fred smirked to himself, satisfied, and leaned in closer to you. His breath tickled the edge of your hair as he murmured, "Making new friends, are we?"

You gave him a teasing grin, twisting slightly so your shoulder brushed his chest. "I make friends everywhere, Freddie. Can't help it if people like me."

He squeezed your waist just lightly, his jaw ticking as his eyes lingered on the boy, who was now wisely trying to pretend he didn't exist. "Mhm. They like you a little too much, if you ask me."

Before you could quip back, a hand caught yours. Another Hufflepuff girl tugged at you, it's Sawyer, her cheeks flushed from dancing and honey blonde hair sticks to her forehead. "Come on! You have to meet my friend," she insisted, practically pulling you off the sofa.

You stumbled to your feet, laughing, your hand slipping free from Fred's hold. "Don't go anywhere, Weasley, I'll be right back."

Fred leaned back on the sofa, his arm falling against the cushions where you'd been. His grin stayed fixed, but his eyes tracked you as you disappeared into the crowd, hand still clasped in your friend's. His chest was tight, restless, like he was ready to hex the next bloke who so much as breathed wrong in your direction.

Cedric regarded him from the sofa across, raising his eyebrows at Fred's scowl. "Subtle as a Bludger to the head, mate."

Fred didn't take his eyes off you. "Not trying to be subtle." Cedric shakes his head, taking a long hit from the joint still being passed, it's nearly fizzled out now but he knows that Fred is about to get played.

Sawyer pulls you through the sea of sweaty bodies all out of uniform for an exhilarating change of pace. The Room of Requirement is deep blue, lit only enough by a yellow glow to let you makee out the silhouettes of people and if you're lucky- their faces. The longer the night wore on the more you seemed to dizzy.

You come to a hault in front of two boys, who stand with their backs turned to a pillar "This is Griffin and that's Thatcher!" Sawyer yells, even with her voice straining it's barely enough for you to hear her still.

"Hi!" You yell, all smiles.

"Hey," Thatcher grins, he's tall, dark curls falling over his face. "Sawyer told me a lot about you."

"What?" You furrow your eyebrows.

"Sawyer told me a lot about you!" He repeats, louder.

"That's great!" You call out "How do you know Sawyer?"

"Huh?" He shakes his head, gesturing to his ear.

You draw closer, one hand braces against his bicep as you lean in inches from his ear "How do you know Sawyer?"

He nods, telling you he heard what he said "Herbology," He leans down to speak gently into your ear "I've seen you play."

You gasp dramatically, hand flying to yur heart like you're shocked "I've got a fan?"

"You've got many," he grins "But seriously, you're really good."

"I'll let you wear my jersey next match." You say with a kittenish smile. "For good luck."

In his free hand that doesn't hold a bottle of beer, he flexes his bicep the muscles flexing. The sinew strains, you can even makeout the veins of his forearm "I dunno if it'll fit."

You only flex yours in return, looking back and forth between them "Hmm, I think it will."

He drops his arm, eyes flickering up and down your body, tongue skimming his teeth. He opens his mouth to speak but he's cut off by a girl behind you, she grabs your shoulders "There you are, you have to come play truth or dare!" It's Hazel, she's almost as touchy as you are. "It's no fun without you."

"Alright," You say, but Hazel is already dragging you away. You point at Thatcher as you succumb to the crowd "You better come fiind me."

Hazel is wearing a light pink slip dress, a stark contrast to her dark skin. She has stopped yanking you and you follow her lazily through the mass, the satin of her dress shimmering beneath the shifting lights.

Oliver Wood is in a an apparently heated argument with Adrian. He is pointing a veryy accusatory finger at the boy, one pointing right back at him. "Oliver!" You smile, coming to a quick stop beside him. The argument seizes at once, Adrian look confused between the two of you. "You were so wicked out there, really."

Oliver's eyes lit, and in his firewhisky haze he launched into an immediate spiel, the kind only Oliver Wood could deliver. "It wasn't just luck, mind you- we trained for this, hours on hours, perfecting formation, tightening every defensive angle. You should've seen the coordination- we had Pucey floundering the whole first half, couldn't even get near the Quaffle-"

You laughed, laying a hand on his arm to steady his swaying stance. "You did brilliantly, Oliver. Truly. You have to tell me everything tomorrow." The mix of alchohol and marijuana was making you friendlier than usual and you didn't think that was even possible.

Before he could dive into another detail, you pulled him into a tight hug. He smelled of sweat, whisky, and broom polish, but the familiar comfort of Oliver made you squeeze just a little harder before slipping free.

Then you turned to Adrian, who was rolling his eyes so hard you thought they might disappear into his head. "Adrian," you said warmly, ignoring his mock scowl. "You were fantastic tonight."

He blinked, caught off guard by your earnest tone. "I- what?"

"You were so good, I couldn't believe it. I'm terrified to play you guys." You tilt your head, eyes full of sincerity. You reached up and hugged him too, his stiff surprise softening as he awkwardly returned the embrace. It was clear he had much less to drink than you. Another person caught your eye and you slip away from the pair.

"Lydia!" You say in passing. Hand slipping to rest on the small of her back. Her black hair is pinned up into a loose bun, pieces falling out in coiled intricate patterns "You are such a beauty, there's no hope for the rest of us!"

Her face flushed crimson, her mouth working silently like she wasn't used to hearing such a thing. You squeezed her shoulder before letting go. You could hear the commotion from the game of truth or dare already, a little circle sit on the ground; all criss-crossed, or knee-tucked into chests, one had even fallen asleep entirely.

The path you carved left laughter in your wake, little ripples of warmth with every hug and touch. But as you scanned the crowd again, the weight of a familiar gaze pulled you in. George Weasley was leaning against a wall with his mates, a drink loose in his hand, eyes tracking you like you were the only light in the room.

You felt your lips curl into something sly, unspoken. You lifted your hand and crooked a finger at him, your movements deliberate, playful, coy. The corner of your mouth tilted upward in a knowing smirk as you called him wordlessly into your orbit. Then, with a deliberate spin of your heel, you threaded your way toward a circle forming near the back of the room.

The circle had swelled tight, knees brushing knees, drinks in hand, the air thrumming with anticipation. Laughter spilled louder each time someone shrieked through a dare or sputtered over a truth. You dropped down onto the carpet with a cheerful little bounce, tugging George by the sleeve until he folded into the spot beside you.

"About time you joined us," you teased, nudging your knee against his. His answering smile was crooked, warm, but there was a heat in his eyes that wasn't just from the firewhisky.

The game had panned out beautifully and messily all at once. People you thought of as bright students made out sloppily, arguments over politics and petty disagreements sounded out, someone handed you another butter-beer and the game continued.

"Alicia, truth or dare," You say, voice lazy and fallen, smirking at her from across the floor.

"Truth," She answers, hair all messy around her shoulders.

"Alright," You draw out "I truth you to tell me if you have feelings for anyone here."

You half-expected her to get all flustered and stumble over her wordds but she is straight faced aside from her wrinkled nose that shows her distaste of it all "Of course not."

"Dang," You murmur, taking another sip of butterbeer.

The empty bottle spun once more, wobbling until it clattered to a stop pointing straight at you."Truth or dare?" Angelina smirked, her voice sing-song.

"Dare, of course," you said without hesitation, tipping your chin high like a soldier awaiting their challenge.

Alicia's eyes glinted. "Seven minutes in heaven. With..." she dragged out the pause, scanning the circle. She thought back to the other night in the common room and all of the practices she hadd endureed hearing George ramble on. Her gaze landed squarely on him. "George."

A ripple of whoops, whistles, and clapping filled the circle. George shifted beside you, his ears immediately flaming red. You only laughed, pressing a hand to your chest.

"Oh, locked in a closet again?" you quipped, eyes dancing as you tilted your head toward him. "You and I have a knack for that, don't we?"

The laughter around the circle doubled, everyone catching the reference. George ducked his head but the grin tugging at his mouth was unmistakable. "Seems fate's got a sense of humor."

"Or maybe just Angelina," You shrug, never one to back away from a challenge.

Hands guided you both toward the nearest broom cupboard, barely large enough to squeeze two people in. The door creaked shut behind you with a finality that silenced the noise of the party, leaving only the closeness of the dark, the press of George's arm brushing yours.

"Well," you murmured, voice lilting as if you were teasing a secret out of him. "Here we are again. You know, people are going to start talking if we keep this up."

Your hand brushed his chest lightly as you shifted in the tiny space, the touch natural to you-friendly, casual, but George's breath caught like you'd knocked it from him. He leaned in before he even realized he was moving, close enough that you felt the warmth radiating off his skin.

"You're not helping," he whispered, voice roughened with nerves and something deeper.

"Helping with what?" you teased, tilting your face up toward his, the grin playing at your lips.

His answer wasn't words it was his mouth finding yours in the dark, the kiss hot and urgent, tasting faintly of firewhisky. For half a heartbeat you froze, surprised. But then the shock melted away, your lips curving against his, and you kissed him back, playful at first, then deeper, as though the darkness demanded more.

All that matters is the feel of George's lips on yours, the way his hands hold you as if you're something precious, something to be cherished. His thumb brushes lightly against your jaw, a small, almost absent-minded gesture that sends another shiver through you. Every touch, every kiss, is filled with reverence that makes you feel all the more cherished.

You tilt your head slightly, deepening the kiss, your tongue tentatively meeting his. George responds with a soft groan, a sound that reverberates through your body, heightening your senses. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you even closer as if he can't get enough of you.

Your kisses grow more urgent and demanding. His lips trail from your mouth to your jawline, planting soft, lingering kisses along your skin. You can't help but tilt your head back, giving him better access, losing yourself in the sensation of his mouth on your skin.

His kisses move to your neck, and you feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, sending another wave of shivers through you. He finds a particularly sensitive spot just below your ear, and when his lips brush against it, you let out a soft gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair.

"George," you whisper, your voice breathless, filled with a mixture of need and bewilderment.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes meeting yours, and the intensity in his gaze makes your heart skip a beat. His hair is a mess, neck is littered with hickies that he would surely regret the next day when he would have to steal his sister's concealer to cover them up. He leans in, capturing your lips once more in a kiss that is both tender and passionate, a perfect blend that leaves you almost dizzy.

His large hands eventually snake their way up your shirt and trail up your midriff to your back. He finds the clasp on your back, pinching the hooks until the bra comes undone completely.

George leans closer, his fingers brushing a stray hair from your face, and the touch sends a shiver down your spine. You want to freeze this moment, to process it all but reality crashes back in when you hear the door unlatching once more. You push him off you, straightening yourself out, smoothing your hair but George just stares at you in utter admiration.

The door opened with a groan of hinges, the roar of the party spilling back over you like a wave. George's cheeks were flushed scarlet, lips kiss-bitten, but the grin on his face was dazed, triumphant. Whistles and hoots greeted you both as you stepped back into the circle, hands clapping George on the shoulders, questions firing your way.

But your smile faded as soon as you were clear of their eyes. Something restless gnawed inside you. George had kissed you. You'd kissed him back. And it hadn't felt wrong, not at all. In fact, it had been good. Too good. But it left a knot in your chest you couldn't quite untangle.

You needed Cedric. Cedric, who always had the steady answers, who had that way of making sense out of the chaos, of grounding you when your thoughts ran circles. If anyone could help you pick this apart, it was him.

You wound through the Room of Requirement, laughter and music vibrating in your chest, calling out greetings and hugging friends on instinct as you searched. You thought you caught sight of Cedric near the far wall, his tall frame angled in conversation with a few Hufflepuffs. Relief sparked until you stumbled right into Fred

"Whoa there, love," he said, catching you with a hand around your arm before you could steady yourself. His grin was immediate, lopsided and warm, but his eyes flickered with something sharper as he glanced over your shoulder, no doubt having seen his twin emerge from the cupboard with you only minutes before.

You reach for the butterbeer in his hand, a nasty habit of taking his drinks. The fizz stung your throat, your stomach churned, but it was easier than thinking. Easier than feeling.

"Slow down," Fred's hand closed around your wrist, firm but not unkind. His voice cut through the noise, that rich, steady tone that always seemed to hold laughter underneath. Not now, though. Now it was low, concerned. "You'll make yourself sick."

"I'm fine," you said quickly, flashing him a smile, though it didn't reach your eyes. "I just- needed it."

But Fred didn't buy it. Your eyes were widee and wild like a deet staring down a rifle, breathing rapid. He didn't speak anther word, he just took the empty bottle from your hand and put it down onto a nearby table. His hand finds the small of your back and he guides you through the press of bodies.

The crowd swallowed up behind you, the music dulled, and you found yourself pulled into a quieter alcove near a tapestry of dancing trolls. The noise of the party throbbed faintly through the stone, but here it was just you and Fred, the warmth of his presence cocooning the space.

He leaned against the wall, arms crssed, warm honeyed eyes regarding you. "Alright. What's going on in that head of yours? You look like someone just told you you're not allowed sweets ever again."

You let out a shaky laugh, running your hands through your hair. "I don't know," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "I don't understand."

Fred's brows furrowed, the teasing gone in a heartbeat. "Don't understand what?"

You hesitated. You couldn't tell him about George- not now, not here. Could you truly confess you had made out with his brother and now your cool demeanour was shattered from such a gentle touch? No. But the pressure of it all was too much to hold inside.

"People," you whispered, almost laughing at yourself. "Everyone. I thought I knew how this all worked, I thought I understood where I fit, but lately-" You stopped, staring at your hands. "It's like I'm missing something obvious. Like I'm breaking rules I didn't know existed."

Fred shifted closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. His hand brushed your elbow, tentative, like he wanted to ground you without scaring you off. "Hey. You're not missing anything. Rules are rubbish anyway. And if anyone says otherwise, tell me who and I'll hex their eyebrows clean off."

That pulled a laugh from you- small, surprised, but real. He grinned, triumphant, though his eyes stayed soft. "See? There's that smile. That's better."

"Don't get used to it," You answer.

"I already have, what now?"

"Move on," You shrug, trying to act normal. How did you normally act? This was it, right? You shifted under the weight of it, your lips parting as if to speak, but no words came.

Fred's smile softened, his usual cocky tilt nowhere to be found. He leaned in, slower than you'd ever seen him move in his life, giving you every chance to turn away. "From you? I could never," He smiles.

And then his lips were on yours.

It was soft. Gentle. Not at all like the whirlwind energy Fred usually carried. His mouth pressed to yours like a secret he wasn't sure he was allowed to tell, like a promise he hoped you'd keep. His hand slid up your arm, cupping your jaw so delicately it had you melting into his palm.

You froze only for a second before instinct carried you forward, leaning into the warmth of him, the steady solidness that had always been Fred. Your heart hammered in your ribs, your breath caught in your throat, and yet the kiss was slow, unhurried, like he wanted to give you time. Like he wanted you to know you could pull away whenever you wished. You had come to the conclusion he had the same moves as his brother and this fact infuriated you.

When he finally drew back, it was only by an inch. His forehead brushed yours, his thumb tracing lightly along your cheekbone. His breath mingled with yours, ragged but steadying.

"See?" he whispered, the barest ghost of his grin returning. "Not so complicated."

But you didn't feel less complicated. If anything, the confusion only deepened, though tangled now with the dizzy warmth of Fred's kiss still on your lips.

You let out a shaky laugh, your hand resting against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. "Fred Weasley," you breathed, unsure if it was meant to scold, to marvel, or to steady yourself.

He only smiled wider, eyes gleaming. "Guilty."

You chest rose and fell heavily, like a rabbit caught in a snare. The ghost of hiis lips was still on yours, as was his brothers. "Fred," You shake your head "I'm not feeling well."

Fred's smile faltered, concern flickering across his face. "Hey—are you—?"

But you didn't wait to hear the rest. You slipped past him, muttering something about needing another drink, about being fine, but your voice cracked on the words. The noise of the party swallowed you again, hot and dizzying.

You wove through the throng, the music pounding in your skull, your vision blurring with the sway of torchlight and laughter. And then, blessedly, you spotted him. Cedric, leaning casually against the wall near the drinks table, head tilted as he listened to a friend's joke.

"Ced," you blurted, almost desperate, clutching his sleeve before he'd even seen you coming. He turned, startled, his steady smile slipping into concern at once.

"Hey- what's wrong?"

Your ready to delve into a spiel to talk his ear off dissecting all that has happened but instead you feel that knot that was building in your stomach finallyy release. You lurched violently.

Cedric reached for you, but it was too late. You stumbled sideways, bracing yourself against the wall, and emptied your stomach into the nearest decorative plant. The smell of butterbeer and spiced rum mixed unpleasantly with soil, your knees threatening to give way. It stung your throat horribly like poison.

He was already by your side, one hand on your back, the other holds your hair back "It's alright, we'll talk later just- easy," he murmured, shielding you from the stares. "Breathe. Just breathe."

You wiped your mouth with the back of your sleeve, eyes stinging with tears you hadn't realized were there. "Merlin, Ced- I think I'm a mess."

"I know you're a mess."

Chapter Text

The great hall seemed less lively on this particular morning. Many hung over their plates, tired a groggy from the party that was held the night before. The younger students rambled on as usual, making plans to spend the afternoon at Honeyduke's. You could usually manage to push your hangover aside, but there was a time that not even a broken jaw stopped your waffling, and now you sat silent.

Two moments and two men of the same soul were plaguing your mind. There was no room to form coherent sentences when the perplexity of it all took up the whole of your head. You delved into the ridges of your brain and tried to make sense of it all, and somehow ended up more confused than the night before when your bile watered a plant.

That night, you had found solace in Cedric as he pulled you from the room of requirements and sat you down on the cool floor of the hallways.

"What happened?" He has said, crouched down to be eye level with you.

"George kissed me," You pouted.

"Alright-

"Fred kissed me too!"

That's when the gravity hit him. He nodded slowly and interrogated you. Was it a prank? A competition? Were they looking for a hookup? Did the other know? To each and every question, you had the shake of your head to answer that you did not know.

You didn't even know either of them had felt that was about you, and Cedric pointed out that in hindsight, it all seemed extremely obvious yet lost upon you.

Now you chew unenthusiastically on a piece of jam-drenched toast Cedric had spread over it for your sake, as you couldn't bring yourself to raise the butter knife and do it yourself. "Hangovers that bad?" Andrew snickered, no issue digging into his own platter.

You shake your head, "It's terrible." This too was true. On top of the dread that filled you after plush lips pressed against yours, your head rang with an ache.

"She fetched up into a plant!" Renata says it is joking, but there is an underlying sympathy with it.

"On the floor too," You add, "It dribbled a tad."

"How much did you drink?" Andrew asks.

"Hell if I know," You shrug, "I just kept getting handed stuff."

"And you just drank it?"

"Yeah?" You take a bite of the toast, woefully, "If someone puts something in front of my mouth, I'm going to eat it."

"You would be terribly easy to poison," Cedric has faired much better than all three of you. He stuck to the pot and even so kept it limited to a couple of hits and melted into the couch during a game of cards.

"Not where my mind was at, but yeah," Renata has her hair tied up today, and this tells you it's unwashed.

"I know exactly where your mind is at, you degenerate." Andrew looks sickened by her words.

"Degenerate?" She raises a brow.

"He meant to say pervert," You look down whistfully at your tea. It cools with every second it is not raised to your lips, the steam dwindling slowly. Cedric reached for a wedge of lemon and squeezed a drop out into the cup because he knew you liked it that way. A long, dramatic sigh escapes your lips before you even realize.

"Godric, what a drama queen you are," Renata says. She drinks her tea with no issue.

"I'm sorrow-filled, Ren. Melancholic, even!"

"Whoa," Andrew pauses his chewing mid-bite. "Using big words, it must be bad."

"What's happened then?" Renata leans closer, eyebrows furrowed.

"Oh, I couldn't say." You shake your head. It was so unlike you to be dramatic; this is what makes Andrew quirk a brow. "I simply realized," you say with great gravity, setting your tea down so that the china clinks, "That life is nothing but one long series of disappointments."

Andrew snorts into his pumpkin juice. "That's a lie if I ever heard one. You're not philosophical until after at least three essays due the same day."

"You should see her after one," Cedric mutters.

"Time's arrow only marches forward, and I suppose I shall too."

"Okay, no," Andrew shakes his head, putting his spoonful of oatmeal back into the bowl, "You're talking like an ancient poet, and it's scaring me."

You tilt your head, eyebrows furrowed like this had truly disheartened you. "Andrew, my tender-hearted friend, I am a proper wordsmith. You have saddened me deeply, entirely!"

"Don't start," He says pointedly, knowing how you ran marathons with such bits.

"Joking, gosh. Always angry, you are. You bite into the jammed toast, it spills off the sides and lands with a plop onto your plate. "I'm hungover, that's all."

"Melodrama over a hangover?" Andrew groans, "Quit huffing and puffing over it, go and get a tonic or something."

"I feel I must endure it," You say, "It's my own form of punishment."

"Then endure it in silence," Andrew reached for the shaker over cinnamon to sprinkle a tad over his oatmeal, but the lid wasn't screwed on completely, and it had plummeted into his dish. The spice is pouring out entirely into the meal. He couldn't even blink; he just stared at it blankly, though Renata wasted no time in laughing.

"Look at that, you great git!" She chortles, bracing her ribs.

"Calling me a git? Don't be rude!" He defends, eyes wide and furious at the small pile of cinnamon before him.

"Hey, she said you were great," You say softly, an innocent smile on your face. It drops immediately upon seeing two tall boys enter the dining hall. They don't walk alongside one another, Angelina is between them and keeps them at a distance from out another.

Renata and Andrew bicker amongst themselves, Cedric is only half-invested, and you stare wide at them both. They don't speak to one another, just to Angelina, who seems to play as a buffer for the moment. Did they tell each other what happened? Do they both know how you had been kissed?

One thought had risen above all: you were tearing their brotherhood apart.

"Andrew, switch seats with me," You demand at once.

"What? No," He says, already furious. His back was faced to them, and you wanted the possibility to make not a second of eye contact with either of them.

"Andrew, please," you hiss, voice sharper than you mean it to be. "Just this once- switch with me."

He squints at you over his ruined oatmeal, the cinnamon already sinking into a sludgy mess. "After all this? You think I'm budging? No chance."

"Andrew," you draw out his name, honey-thick and syrupy sweet, leaning toward him with your most disarming smile. "You're my favourite. My darling. My knight of the cinnamon shaker."

"Stop flattering me," he says flatly, stabbing his spoon into the swamp he's made.

"I mean it," you insist, placing a hand on his arm like you might swoon at any moment. "Switch with me and I'll-" you pause, eyes darting for a bribe-"I'll write your Charms essay."

"What good would that do? You can barely write your own Charms essay."

Your face falls. "Andrew, you are hurting me."

Renata, half-choking on her tea, grins. "This is brilliant. Keep begging, see if it works!"

Cedric lifts an eyebrow at you, calm as ever. "You do realize you're making more of a scene than if you just stayed put?"

But you're already moving, hooking your hands under Andrew's arm and pulling. "Get up, you heavy thing! For Merlin's sake, do me this one kindness!"

Andrew stiffens, spoon still in his oatmeal. "Unhand me, woman!"

He digs his heels into the floor, but you tug harder, practically climbing into his lap in your effort to shift him. Renata is doubled over now, tears streaming down her face, while Cedric looks resigned, like he's debating whether to intervene or let you humiliate yourself further.

"Having trouble there?"

That voice. Low, amused, familiar. You freeze mid-tug, fingers still curled around Andrew's sleeve. Slowly, you lift your head.

Fred Weasley is standing only a few feet away, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. George lingers just behind him, expression unreadable, his eyes catching yours for one fleeting, gut-punching second before sliding away again.

Angelina looks between you all with the sharpness of someone who knows far too much.

Andrew seizes his chance, yanking his arm free and scoffing. "See? Even he thinks you've lost your mind."

But your mind is already lost, spinning out of control, caught between the weight of two pairs of eyes, one smirking, one avoiding, and the unbearable thought that you've ruined something bigger than yourself.

Your heart thumps uncomfortably, but you plaster on a weak smile. "Just, ah- getting my morning exercise." You give Andrew's arm one last tug for show before letting go, collapsing back into your seat with exaggerated defeat.

Fred chuckles, low and knowing. "Morning execution, you mean?"

You force a laugh, rubbing your temple like your headache is to blame for the heat crawling up your neck. "Please, Fred. I drank so much last night, I don't even remember half of it. My brain's mush."

"Shame," Fred leans his elbow against the table, chin resting in his hand as his eyes flicker to you. "Because I think you remember the best part just fine."

Your throat goes dry. "And what part would that be?" you ask, aiming for airy but landing closer to strangled.

His smile flickers and falters before he regains himself. If you truly hadn't remembered, he was just standing there making a fool of himself. "You threw up. Hilarious."

"I'm far from the only one," You wave it off. "But, Fred?"

"Yeah?"

"You are such a good friend." You smile, "Really, I'm so glad we are such good friends. I just- I put so much value on this friendship," You put as much emphasis on being friends as possible to hammer the point home to Fred that what you both knew happened, should not happen again.

"I was going to ask if you wanted-

"To do something super fun and friendly in a group of people?" You cut him off, nearly shaking with this faux enthusiasm. "I would love nothing more."

"Right- I'll go think of something fun and friendly to do," He nods, lips pressed into a thin line.

"In a group of people," Cedric adds. You both glare at him.

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It was lucky for you that the year had been drawing to an end by the time they both had kissed you. That you would have time to mull it over in your much comfier bed back home, and maybe by then, finally get over it.

Alas, you were boarding the Hogwarts Express and still flinched upon glimpsing red hair in the corner of your eye. Your trunk had been hauled into the train with the help of some Slytherin boys you had enlisted to help you.

"Oi," Fred's voice cut through the noise. He looked taller in the sunlight, his hair catching the light like copper fire. George stood beside him, quieter, eyes searching you with sincerity.

You froze on the step of the train, face paused in an open-mouthed smile, "Oh, hi, you guys!"

"Trying to run off without saying goodbye?" George's tone remained light, but there was some clear tightness in how strained your interactions had been the past month and a half.

"I knew you would catch me," You smile, leaning against the doorway to let people pass. "You always do."

"Seems that way, huh?" Fred says.

"It is that way," George says, looking at him.

Fred shifted his weight, the grin on his face not quite reaching his eyes. "Well, you've got to admit, you didn't make it easy to catch you."

"Nearly gave us a complex with all these vanishing acts," George adds.

"I like you keep you on your toes." You shrug, trying to seem as indifferent as possible.

"That's an understatement," Fred huffs a laugh under his breath, and you raise a brow.

"Right, well-

"You'll write to me?" George asks, eyes full of sincerity. It felt like kicking a puppy and then shoving it in front of a moving car

"Of course!" You say this far too enthusiastically, like your entire body was buzzing. You try to compose yourself the way you would a speech, but wind up just standing stiff and staring at the two. "Well- goodbye!" you blurted, almost tripping over your own feet as you spun and darted inside.

You hurried down the corridor, glancing behind you to be sure they weren't following and surely- they were. You smile coyly, casting a wave back in the direction of George and quickly duck into a stall. You close the door behind you, three second-year girls sat on the cushioned seats and looked at you, then at each other.

"Hi, girls," You smile at them. "Mind if I sit with you?"

One of them with pigtails looks like she wants to object, but a ginger girl scoots to the side to make room for you. "Sure."

"Great, thanks, lass," You say politely, the girl across from you has a rabbit in her lap. "Oh- that's the most darling thing I've ever seen."

He's a round ball of fur in her lap, all white with little patches of brown like coffee dribbled over a tablecloth. "Oh!" She looks down at the bunny like she's forgotten it was there. "His name is Achilles."

"He looks like an Achilles, terribly muscular," You joke, and this seems to ease the girls into smiles. "How has the year treated you all?" There is a collective sigh that sums up to 'awful' from all three of them. You lean forward, chin propped on your hand, the corners of your mouth tugging up. "Awful? From such bright, clever-looking girls? I don't believe it."

The pigtailed one huffs, slumping back against the window. "Professor Snape hates me. He said my potion looked like sewer water."

You gasp dramatically, clutching your chest. "Sewer water? Scandalous. I'm sure it was more like a fine soup. Never you mind him, he has such dreadful sensibilities."

"I know he does; his dreadful sensibilities dictate my grade."

"You'll make up for it next year, I'm sure." You wave it off. "And you?" You turn to the ginger girl who made room for you. "Surely something awful has happened to you as well, since you're all united in such grief."

She shrugs, but her cheeks pinken. "I fell off my broom during flying lessons. Right in front of everyone."

"Pfft," you wave a dismissive hand. "If you're not falling, you're not learning. I've taken more spills than I can count. And I've the bruises to prove it." You roll up your sleeve just enough to reveal a faint yellowed bruise along your forearm, proof of your ventures. "I've got this too." You lift your top lip to show the faint scar where Fred had inadvertently knocked your teeth out.

"How'd that happen?" The pigtailed girl presses.

"Quidditch mishap," You kept it vague. "Be warned if you girls try out, I've spent many nights in the infirmary."

"I want to try out," The ginger tells you. "I've played with my brothers more times than I can count and I've never fallen off a broom before!"

"I believe you, love," You say with great sympathy. "Nerves are all, I'm sure."

"How do I get rid of it?"

"You don't," You say, "You go on with nerves. It gets easier every day, but the hard part is you have to do it every day."

The pigtailed one tilts her head, curious. "So, why have you sat with us? I've seen you around school. Don't you have friends?"

"You guys are my friends!" You exclaim, lowering your voice as though telling them something forbidden. She raises an eyebrow and you fold immediately. "I must confide in you all," you lean in conspiratorially, eyes dancing, "I'm afraid two terribly handsome boys are in love with me." There's a collective squeal, high-pitched and delighted, that makes you shush them quickly, laughing into your sleeve. "Shhh! You'll have the whole train knowing!"

"Who are they?" the ginger demands, bouncing in her seat. "Tell us! Is it true love? Are they older? Do they write you letters?"

You laugh, waving your hands as though to push the flood of questions away. "Well, they're my age, terribly persistent, and no, no letters- thank heavens. Can you imagine what kind of chaos that would cause if they got intercepted? But I did promise only moments ago that I would write."

"Are you going to?" The girl patting her rabbits asks.

"I have to, right?"

"Do you want to?"

"I'm not sure," You answer, mulling it over truly like you had every night for weeks. They were both handsome and charismatic, tall, funny, challenging- the only downside was that you had to choose one.

"So -which one do you like?"

Your smile falters for the briefest second. You smooth it over quickly, ruffling the rabbit's ears. "That's just the problem, babes- I don't like either. Not that way. They're my friends, my very dear friends. But they seem to have gotten the wrong idea."

The pigtailed girl gasps, scandalized. "Both of them? At once?"

"Mm-hm." You lean back, stretching your arms across the top of the seat with mock grandeur. "Tragic, isn't it? Two boys, utterly distracted, hopelessly lost, all over me." You press the back of your hand to your forehead as though you might swoon, which sets them all off into another fit of giggles.

"I wish I had two boys fighting over me," Pigtails says, with a slight frown.

"I'm sure you have boys falling at your feet."

"It sounds wonderful," The girl with her rabbit says in solidarity.

"It isn't," You say, "Well, it is- only because they're wonderful. It's quite the issue, truly. To have to pick one or neither, I suppose my romantic life lies away from them. I couldn't dare tear brothers apart, that would be sick."

Finally, the ginger broke the silence. She tilted her head, squinting at you. "Wait. Do you know my brothers?"

You blinked. "Your brothers?"

"Fred and George," she said, matter-of-fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You play Quidditch with them. They told me they're friends with you."

You started, then stopped, a hand pressed to your temple. "Yes! We are friends, very good friends, just friends- quite platonic." You nod like this confirms it. "And you're Ginny, I've heard an awful lot about you."

"I've heard a lot about you, too," She says absentmindedly.

"Right," You draw out, already eyeing the exit. "Like what? Never mind, doesn't bug me. Oh! I just remembered I said I would go and say hi to them, so I'd best be off."

You stand stiff and wave at the girls, an overcheerful smile before sneaking away and shutting the door behind you once more. There are some students still talking amongst themselves in the corridor, laughing loudly and speaking in hushed tones.

You search for a compartment with an open door or a familiar face. You stare through glass panels and even find the twins speaking with low-hanging heads right with Lee and Katie. Luckily, they don't catch your eyes, and you make it away without another conversation that pained you so.

There isn't near the end, and you have to choose one at random. You yank the door open, and it seems you had interrupted a conversation between a group of boys only a year or two younger than you. They stare at you blankly, and you recognize two of them as Ravenclaw students you had given your spare sugarquills months back.

One boy is covered head to toe in freckles, with hair red like rust. You narrow your eyes. "Are you a Weasley?"

It seems he almost takes offence to this "No."

"Lovely," You ease into a smile, "Mind if I sit with you lot?"

Chapter Text

The air was crisp, and the grass was still damp with dew upon the early morning. The fields rolled on endlessly as you trudged merrily along, Cedric and Amos pacing you. The whole journey you had been talking on end, egging Amos to speak even more than he often did. "How many World Cups have you been to?"

"Why- this is my third," Amos begins. Cedric thought you two to be a deadly pair, with your endless questions and his obscenely long answers; it was nearly impossible to get a word in. "Yes, I saw it when I was around your age, only I went with my buddies. We hardly had a galleon to our name; all we could afford was the ticket, so we slept on the ground. Our jackets were the only pillows we had! It went on for a whole week, and by the end, oh, we were filthy as could be. We slept around a fire, and on that last night, it poured so hard it extinguished the fire. All of us- drenched! My good friend, Cepheus- we still keep in touch, he's just had his ten-year anniversary with the misses. Anyhow, he though quick to use Exaresco once the rain cleared up and we were fresh as ever to watch the end of the match."

Cedric was fighting not to zone out as he had heard this story many a time, but you listened intently. "What of the second time?"

"I went with Ced's mom!" He chuckles, "I thought I would impress her, but she was used to much fancier things by then. It was France vs Brazil playing, and what a match that was! Joking, it only lasted a few hours, and I will say the players were so handsome, I was afraid Lalita would realize she could do a whole lot better than me. One of the lads in the row in front of us asked if he could write to her. Lucky for me, she's turned him down, and I knew it was a definite thing. Well, I always felt it was, but I never knew with someone so beautiful if she might take off on me!"

"She is very beautiful." You concur, "What a lovely story, and you've never even told me. I can't believe it!"

"I can't believe it either," Cedric mumbles.

"And what came of the match?" You ask with an honest sort of earnest. You so loved to hear stories.

"Oh-" he chuckles, "It was a very tight match! You see, Moreau and Costa had already had a good bit of scandal some months prior, Costa said he would have preferred to play against France since Moreau was such an awful seeker!"

"Oh! A nail-biter!" Your eyes widen.

"Indeed it was," He nods, "That game was madness. The anger had just been brewing right up to then; they were at each other like wolves. When it first begins and we see them fly out on the pitch, they are already at each other. It took hours for them to spot the golden snitch, and then they were trying to push each other off the brooms! A foul was called, of course, and then, oh gosh- they took it to the ground, gloves off and started fist-fighting. It was barbaric! They were broken up, but the match had to continue, and when Moreau caught the snitch, Costa stormed off. No one saw him the whole evening. He hasn't played since, I believe."

You had been listening with eyes wide with earnest. "Interesting. Perhaps they were lovers in a secret tryst."

"Do elaborate, my dear," Amos furrows his eyebrows.

"Sometimes hate and fear feel like love; they may have had the passion mistaken."

Amos chuckles, "It was passion, indeed. That's a good word for it."

Cedric had long tuned out, eyes wandering to his leather boots as they dragged him up the hill. As the grass rolled on, his eyes travelled to an old, mildewed boot sitting along with only a tree to keep it company.

His eyes widened. "Is that it?"

"Oh," Amos narrows his eyes to be sure, "Well, it sure is." Amos takes the lead, stepping past both you and Cedric. At the peak, he uses one hand to shield the sun from his eyes and waves off in the distance. "Over here, Arthur. We've got it over here!"

You stop in your tracks, Cedric gestures for you to keep going, grabbing the hem of your shirt and pulling with little to no force when you do not budge. Surely, when you stood by Amos, there were five gingers, one brunette, and a raven-haired boy you knew to be Harry Potter.

Both Fred and George looked shocked to see you standing there. Fred raised an eyebrow, and George muttered something that fell incoherent to your ears. Fred leans in to listen, and you can feel yourself squirm.

"This is Amos Diggorry, everybody-" Arthur began, but your focus trailed elsewhere with the twins staring right at you.

As you had promised to write during the summer and you did no such thing, now you were to atone for such cruelty. Your mother had forwarded the letter from the pair of them to the Diggory household during your stay. You had sat an inch away from Cedric, conversing about the subject matter within the letters and had wound up having your dear friend forge a letter from your parents, then torn it from his hands and proclaimed you would send nothing at all.

It is not to say you did not think about them.

You did. The notion of their kisses and that sickening night made you blush with no subtlety at all. Maybe Ginny had told them what you said on the train, questioned them about it and whether or not they were the culprits who stood complicit for dizzying your emotions.

For the most part, it was guilt that hung over you. George's tender smile, as he cheered for you in the stands, Fred took it upon himself to haul your books to your next class. How you had dismissed their flirtation and kind acts in the same stomach-shurning breath.

In the first weeks of summer, you had tried not to think about it, but then it hit you how you may have caused irreparable damage to such a sweet thing. When the realization struck, you had played Careless Whisper on loop for hours and with every replay of the song, you thought of a different twin paired with yourself. When your father came home from work and heard the song loop for more than one cycle, he was quick to shut it off.

Amos's voice carried on in cheerful introduction, but his words were a muffled hum beneath the thunder of your pulse. The sight of them, their identical freckled faces, their familiar smirks and stunned silence, dragged you back through a dozen moments you'd rather not relive. The party, the kisses, the letters you never sent.

"Right, you two remember-" Amos was saying, but Fred cut him off with a low whistle.

"Well, well," he said, that trademark grin blooming slow and sharp. "Didn't think we'd hear from you again."

George nudged his twin, though his mouth twitched like he was fighting the urge to smile. "Don't start, Fred."

"Oh, I'll start," Fred said easily. "Would've saved us a lot of postage if we'd known you were hiding behind Diggory's dad this whole time."

You might've cried about how cruel you had been, pleaded for forgiveness, but you can only find yourself with a tight-lipped smile, staring at the ground. Cedric furrows his eyebrows, searching your face to come up empty.

Arthur had made the rounds of introducing his children

"Er-yeah," Said Harry, shifting slightly.

"I've heard about you, of course." Amos was already winding up once more, just as you thought he had gotten all his chatter out while you had zoned out. "You played these two last year and I said- that'll be something you tell your kids that you beat Harry Potter."

It seemed Harry didn't have anything to say to this as an awkward air settled over the group, Arthur still smiling blankly. You can feel the silence spreading like spilled ink. Even the breeze seems to falter. Harry looks ready to vanish on the spot, and Cedric is awkwardly adjusting his collar. Naturally, you feel the urge to do what you do best- talk.

"There are many more interesting stories to tell my future children, I'm sure."

Amos quirks a brow. "Such as?"

"The Quidditch World Cup, of course," You smile, having successfully steered the conversation, "Just as you had been telling Cedric and me of Brazil vs France."

"Oh, a great match," Arthur concurs, "And it must be nearly time," Arthur pulls out a watch. "Are we waiting on anyone?"

"No, Lovegoods have been set up for a week, and the Fawcetts couldn't get tickets."

"Right," Arthur nods, "We're a minute off." He looks to the children in care, ushering them around the boot Amos held with great difficulty owing to their bulky backpacks and camping gear. "You just need to touch the portkey, is all, a finger will do fine."

You had ended up shoved tight between Cedric and Fred, with not an inch of space to separate you. Fred didn't look down at you, acknowledge you in any way, but you could still smell the scent of fizzy candies and that sharp, acrid gunpowder.

A force tugged at your navel like you were a fish being strung over a hook, and it pulled you in as a frog does a fly. The world around you spun into a dizzying blur. The faces around you all spun into something unrecognizable; you thought for a moment you might fall sick at the force.

As the portkey had wound your stomach into knots, it was a welcome to crash upon solid ground- what was not welcomed was Fred's body crash landing over yours for what was not the first time. The sheer mass of his body was enough to knock the wind out of you; no words came out, only a strangled breath.

He rubbed his head, all groggy. When he comes to that, your chests are pressed flush against one another, he is quick to roll off to the side. "Bad habit of ours," He mutters.

"Bad?" You tease without a trace of smile on your face, "I quite enjoy it." You didn't know how to act anymore, straddling the line between what was flirty, friendly, or casually cruel. It wasn't often you filtered or conditioned yourself to act a certain way.

Before Fred could retort, a strong hand grabbed him by the back of his jacket and yanked him upright with far more force than necessary. You sat up slowly, blinking the dizziness from your head, to see George standing there, his jaw tight, brushing at his brother's shoulder a little too roughly.

"Easy," Fred said, tugging his sleeve from George's grip. "I'm fine."

"Just helping, is all," George smiles, though his eyes do not match it.

That strange sense of unease settles over you. Despite their Spartan attitudes, it seemed the summer had worn them through in a way not even your lack of lechery could.

Hoisting yourself up with little grace, you look around for Cedric, who catches your eye at once. He has landed peacefully, on his feet, everything intact. George and Fred speak in low voices, their eyes cutting into each other.

"I best be off to find my parents," You say, excusing yourself from a conversation you were not even in.

"Then be off, love," George remarks simply, casting you a glance only momentarily.

You should have shrugged it off, his comment. In truth, it meant nothing to you, but his disinterested look is what brought you to bite the inside of your cheek. His bored expression, the dismissal. Still you grin, "Farewell, my loves!"

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The match had eased your brain. In the heat of the match, you were the blistering bride and drank in every second of it. You had cheered for Ireland so loudly that it drowned out anyone in your section who rooted for Bulgaria. Though you face the price of a voice long lost, screaming had turned your throat into sandpaper, and your dad promised to fetch you a tonic when you returned home.

Your father thought you would be buzzing long after the match and kept the whole tent away with endless chatter, but to your pleasant surprise, you lulled softly into a deep sleep the moment your head hit the pillow. The early morning hiking and your long hours of bustling over the match had worn you out more than actually playing a Quidditch match.

In your restful, languid state, you were awoken by the unpleasant force of Cedric pulling on your limp arm. Blinking your eyes open, you glance at the lanterns still lit, the campfires outside bright against the darkness of the night. "Oh, sod off, it's still dark."

"Get up," He says, his voice carried a strict tone you were unfamiliar with- even when you had misbehaved wildly in practices. "Where's your wand?"

This panic had startled you awake. Pushing hair from your eyes, you point loosely at the bedside. Ceedric grabs it and shoves the wooden handle firmly into your palm. "We need to go, it's deatheaters."

"Death Eaters?" Your heartbeat quickened as you pulled yourself up from the cot. Cedric took your free hand the moment you had shoes on and hauled you from the canvas tent. Outside, you come to notice that what you had mistaken for dancing and celebration was screaming and running.

A horde of people all headed towards the woods away from the sounds of terror and something of a gunshot. They ran in groups like a stampede, all pushing through one another and occasionally trampling the unlucky who had stumbled.

It was a thing of terror, and the shock of it had frozen you as your eyes paused on a group of masked figures suspending four bodies in the air. They huddled around yapping, wailing with a sick sort of laughter that sent ice to your veins. They seemed like faceless creatures at first, then the light flickered low, and you saw the intricacies of their masks.

Cedric's fingers slipped from yours as he spotted his father across the chaos, looking windswept and startled. "Dad!" he shouted over the rising din, tugging your wrist once before letting go. "Go, get to the woods! I'll find you there!"

"Cedric!" you started, but he was already gone, swallowed by the torrent of fleeing bodies. His chestnut hair is no longer in sight, far-out and gone.

The air was thick with smoke and sparks, the ground littered with torn canvas and trampled cups. You turned in circles, wand shaking in your grasp, calling out for your father. Your heartbeat quickened, ducking between tents in search of the welcoming face of your father

"Dad! Dad!"

A figure collided into you, sending you stumbling back. For a brief, wild moment, you thought it was one of them, the masked ones, but then you saw a familiar cloak, the glint of your father's watch chain, and before you could even breathe, his hands clamped down on your shoulders.

"Run!" he shouted. His face was lit by the flicker of fire, harsh and orange, not unlike the nights you had spent roasting marshmallows and revelling in laughter. "Go to the woods, don't stop, you hear me?"

"Where's Cedric? I can't leave-" you started, voice hoarse, but he shook you hard enough to silence the protest.

"You can't help here!" he barked, eyes wild as another explosion rattled the earth. "Poppet, just go."

He pushes you with little force and turns back once more to assist the ministry. You look to the edge of the forest and watch as people move from the flickering firelight to hide behind thickets and disappear into the darkness. Boot prints sank deep into the mud as parents clutched their children's small hands in theirs and pulled them along.

Friends had huddled together, searching for that sweet asylum, but where had yours gone? You look around, stuck in the heat, eyes searching for Cedric. The smoke was thicker now, black and coiling into the night sky.

"Cedric!" The name cracked out of your throat, rasped raw from the shouting, the smoke, the terror. But there was no answer, only the screaming of others and the cruel laughter echoing somewhere behind it all.

"CEDRIC!" You call again, voice raw and strangled from what was once a fun night. You pushed harshly past a man with what was the sighting of tousled chestnut hair and a green jumper. A hand seized yours, stopping you.

"What are you doing?" George asks, eyebrows furrowed, and he already begins to pull you along.

You turned in alarm, hand half-raised, before your eyes landed on the freckled face streaked with soot, his ginger hair dishevelled, his eyes bright with urgency. "I need to find Cedric, he was just-" You turn your head once more to where you had spotted him, only to find him gone again in the sea of bodies.

"Don't just stand there!" he barked, his voice rough, the usual calm completely gone. "Move, now."

You let him pull you; he didn't give you a choice. His grip was firm, his stride long, and you had to half-run, half-fall to keep up as he tore through the stampede of panicked witches and wizards."Where's Fred?"

"He's gone ahead with Ginny," He states, his large hand pulling you along, though your eyes trail back to the last fleeting sighting of your best friend. George seems to catch this with a quick glance, "He'll be okay, he can handle himself."

"Didn't think I'd ever hear you admit that."

He doesn't take part in your teasing, not on this night. Not by the worried look across your face as the words fell, like this persona was second nature. By the time you reach the treeline, George has yet to drop your hand; he holds firm around it.

Looking around the dark woods, you can't quite make out anyone familiar beneath what little light was offered from the lanterns and illumination spills. This does not stop you from swivelling your head and searching.

The two of you kept moving, deeper and deeper into the woodland and shrubs until you had tugged on him, planted your feet firm. "George," You say. He ignores you. "George, I think we've gone far enough."

George drops your hand, and it's difficult not to notice the lack of warmth without it, "Right, sorry, I thought we might find Fred and Ginny or Ron-

"We can go look for them."

"No," He shakes his head, "Give it fifteen minutes, just let it die down some before we go back out."

"Right," You nod, settling down on the sullied log of a fallen tree. You shivered some, bringing your arms to hug your biceps. "I just worry."

"Didn't expect that from you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" You ask, voice sharper.

"No, not like that," he shakes his head, "I just mean to say you always seem relaxed."

It was true you tended to fall in the centre of an even temper and greet almost everyone with a smile, but waking up to a fire and a family suspended in mid air shook you off your equilibrium. In recent months, it was common for you to be off said equilibrium; you found yourself needing reminders to remain down to earth and unpanicked. "I usually am, especially with you." You answer, "Just- how could this happen?"

George lands softly on the log beside you, resting his elbows on the tops of his thighs. "I know." His voice is heavy with understanding at the stomach-churning sight.

"I hope he's alright," You mutter, and you don't need another word for him to understand you are speaking of Cedric.

He knew he wasn't nearly as close to you as Cedric was, but still, you did not call his name from the flames. Cedric was not the one to pull you from the fire- he was. "He'll be just fine. Ginny and Ron, too, Fred's got them, I know it."

There is a silence that stretches between you as the panicked voice slowly dies down into something more tranquil. You could at least hear the sounds of crickets chirping and far-off conversation that helped to ease your strife. George, too, was a comforting presence, and for this, you say, "I'm glad you're safe."

"I'm glad you're safe too," He says kindly, voice warm. The facepaint you saw him sporting earlier was a shell of what it once was, all streaked and rubbed off; only little bits of green remained in the crease of his eyelids and dotted in his ginger hairline. George rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling hard through his nose.

"And I'm sorry I didn't write like I said I would." Your voice seems quieter now, and you aren't quite able to meet his eyes.

"It's fine."

"It's not, it was unkind."

"I was busy, you were busy, hardly had time to write myself."

"There is no such thing as being too busy to write," You shake your head.

"I don't like you anymore if that's what you were worried about."

The air stills, and something around you settles. This was the resolution you had been longing for, yet you could not bring yourself to ask him yourself. "I didn't know you liked me at all."

George scoffs. "I kissed you."

"Drunk at a party off a dare, I didn't know what to make of it." This was the truth, sweet honey mumbled from your lips, that that moment had driven you crazy for months on end, along with a similar tension with his doppelgänger.

He rolls his head back, eyes searching the sky for an answer until he huffs out a histrionic sigh. "It's my fault. I liked you, and I didn't know how to tell you, and I got carried away when I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have made it weird."

You bit your lip, watching the muscle in his throat move as he swallowed. It was easier to look at that than his eyes. "It wasn't weird," you said, though you both knew that was a lie. "Just quite complicated."

"It was weird," He reiterates.

"Yeah," You confirm. "But you are a good kisser, I'll give you that."

"Happy to have your blessing."

"Kindly." Your eyes soften, peering into his skull. The embarrassment was evident across his face, cheeks pink and rosy from the heat against the chilled night breeze. "I will say I am enjoying this awkward heart-to-heart we're having in the woods. Of all the skeletons in my closet, you are surely my favourite."

George blinked at you, half-relief, half embarrassment, "Favourite skeleton? That's a first."

"Well, you're much more handsome than the others. Their skulls aren't nearly as shiny as yours."

"Kind of you to notice, I've been polishing it lately."

"So you have," You brush a thumb across his forehead, moving a strand of curly hair out of the way, "I can tell."

"I think I look better with a bit of meat on me."

"Oh, I agree, wholeheartedly,"

"Not half-heartedly?"

"George, you have my whole heart," You tease, a smile on your face once more. You were alleviated. As someone who detests a lie, it hurts you terribly to spin such a web of fallacies.

He hated it when you would say things like that, get his hopes up, because Fred was right when he had said George was nothing special in your eyes, that everyone was your favourite, and he was simply one amongst many. That's why it ached so bad when you would speak so amorously; still, he grins as you expect him to. "As do you."

To him: your smile is celestial, something carved of marble and bath beneath sunlight. He didn't notice how you had leaned forward to hug him until your arms were already around him. Your face nuzzled into his chest, even through your sweater; you could feel his warmth.

"I'm glad to be your friend," You mumble, eyes heavy with lack of sleep since the adrenaline of panic had dissipated. He slung one arm over you, rubbing your back in soft, slow circles.

"Oi!" a voice called, rough with smoke and breathless laughter. "Told you they'd leg it into the woods!" Fred crosses from the thicket into the clearing. Ginny trails close behind him, though his eyes catch on your hand, resting softly over his brother's back. Fred only looks back up and smiles, but it is clear to him that the game never ended.

Chapter Text

While you were promised a peaceful summer, it was not what you received. You did not spend the rest of it with Cedric and his family, but right back into your bedroom, listening to your parents argue through the sound of your radio. Your mother begged you to come for the last few days after the fright at the World Cup, but had spent said time with you, too exasperated with your father to speak, so you filled the gaps with mindless chatter.

It seemed like such a strange thing that they would not yield to the other, that their swords would always be drawn and shields bared before their tumultuous love. You were so willing to put your weapon down that you could not imagine why they would refuse.

With a straw house as a mother and a red-faced wolf for a father, you had made the journey to the platform by yourself, hauling a large trunk through the tube system of downtown London, something upbeat in your headphones- the sound of gems upon drums and a man with a voice likened to that of the soft velvet of a rose petal.

It soothed you so even with a young man across from you shaking with a cold withdrawal. You turned up your music and pressed your lips into a thin smile. Commuters shuffle off the train while others fill their spot like a factory machine before the doors close once more.

Beside you, a woman sits. No further into life than thirty years, she looks terribly professional with a stoic face, black dress pants, and a maroon jacket buttoned tight. She does not meet your eyes as she clutches her purse in her lap.

You stare at her unabashedly. Pulling out one headphone, you begin, "I quite like your jacket." You had said this truthfully; it suited her and her dark hair. She does not acknowledge you, and so you speak again, "My mothers got one like it, but she likes it far too much to let me borrow it."

The woman looks at her watch, which tells you she is well and fine, just ignoring you. You put your headphones back in and lean into the unclean fabric of the chair. It must've known many stories since it last been tidied.

Your trunk is tucked between your legs, absentmindedly, you tune out and into the music, drumming on the leather lightly with your fingers. The red-coated woman shoots you a glare, and you stop at once, though it does not stop you from fiddling with your sleeves the rest of the journey; you needed to move somehow.

There was no relief when you stopped at King's Cross station because you knew the fate that lay before you: a nine-hour ride on the Hogwarts Express followed by the carriage ride from Hogsmeade to the castle itself. Having started your journey at four in the morning, you anticipated sleeping the entire way.

Having set found on non-shifting ground, your legs had not fallen asleep, but they were aching to be moved. The station air was thick and humming, heavy with the hiss of train steam and the chatter of parents giving their final warnings. You pulled your trunk along the polished tile, eyes scanning for the half-barrier between nine and ten until you found a familiar family of redheads standing before it, half blocking the entrance.

You adjusted your bag over your shoulder and dragged your trunk a bit louder than necessary. It clattered noisily over the floor, and George's head turned at once, a smirk crossing his face.

"Blimey," he called, "Did you fly here?" George remarks upon your tousled appearance, a long, colourful scarf wrapped several times around your neck, the trackpants, your unkempt hair, and the frayed sleeves of your cable-knit sweater from picking at the cuffs so often. Waking up so early, there was no option of looking nice.

"I wish," you said, coming to a stop before them, flushed from the effort. "Tube systems are a cruel joke played on humanity. I had to lift this thing through three flights of stairs at Tottenham Court. Some poor man offered to help, and I think he regretted it halfway up because I heard his back crack like a wishbone."

"So you've murdered a man?" He raises a brow.

"Not on my own accord, it was completely voluntary on his end."

Wordlessly, Fred reaches for your trunk and pulls it from your loose grip, adding it to the pile on the express. "Early morning?"

"Yes!" You exasperate. "Holy wow, like you wouldn't believe. Didn't even have time to eat breakfast. I think I've burned my body weight in calories just by dragging myself around. Y'know what? No one on the tubes was kind to me, and I was very outspoken."

Fred huffs a laugh, "Well, that's why. Ought to grow accustomed to the fine people of the London Underground"

"It wasn't completely underground," You respond, "That was the tricky part, I've never done that trip on my own before. Gosh, I should study those maps before Christmas break, or I'll take residence with the foxes. Everywhere, by the way. Not that I mind, lovely things of wonder. I do adore their eyes. They're not unlike you, really, with the red and the eyes and their habits of being a general nuisance, albeit a beautiful one."

He presses a hand to his heart like this is a genuine compliment. "Thank you, I am the most stunning nuisance of all, and I'm glad you've taken notice. Though- I don't think you'll want to go home for Christmas."

"What? Is that a threat?" You furrow your brows. "Are you going to do something to my parents?"

Fred, for once, seems taken aback by this. "I'm not going to touch your parents-

"Hell, am I supposed to think when you've told me not to go home?"

"It's nothing to do with your bloody parents."

"Then tell me."

"I couldn't," Freed shakes his head.

George leans in just close enough to whisper, "I'll tell you later."

"Tell me now, I beg of you." You softened your tone, a quiet plea.

"Later," he reiterates.

"When is later?"

"Later," George says again, his voice dipping into that infuriatingly calm register he uses when he knows he's got the upper hand.

Fred rolls his eyes, adjusting his collar. "Ignore him. He just wants you to think he's mysterious."

"I am mysterious," George insists. "I've just got a certain depth."

"You were born with a twin and half a brain," Fred shoots back, patting the side of George's head as though knocking on hollow wood.

"And you've got the other half?" You ask.

Fred shakes his head, smiling, "Just a quarter, lost the last bit."

"Figures," You yawn like a snake unhinging its jaw, dramatic, somewhat disturbing and drawn out. "I need to sleep," You speak muffled through the yawn, "I fear I may die, crack my head open on the floor when I pass out from exhaustion."

"That's a very gruesome fate," George has one hand between your shoulder blades, rubbing softly against the fabric of your sweater as you yawn once more, heavy-eyed and swaying slightly in somnolence.

"You best be off to the train," Fred says, "Wouldn't want to see your beautiful head anywhere else but on your neck."

"You're not sitting with me?"

Fred exchanged a quick glance with George, who only shrugged in response, fighting a smile over his face. "We'll sit with you," He answers.

"Of course," George adds, "Couldn't imagine better company."

There is no argument, but your next yawn split the sentence in two, and before long, you were sandwiched between the twins, head resting against the window as the train lurched forward. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels had you drifting almost instantly, your lashes fluttering once or twice before stilling completely.

George shifted first. You'd leaned, mid-sleep, into his shoulder. The wool of your scarf brushed his chin, smelling faintly of cedar smoke and peppermint. He did not stiffen, gently readjusted so your neck would not ache upon waking.

The summer has not been easy for the twins. Between trying to develop Weasley Wizard Wheezes with the constant interception of their mother and the simmering distrust that lingered between them. It was hot, dry, and in the feverish nights spent around the campfire, Fred had felt George was keeping from him. George knew that Fred was not telling him the whole truth, and after every joke uttered from his mouth, George's narrowed eyes lingered a moment longer around the upturned corners of his lips.

The difference between his exaggerated laughter and true delight, the creases around his eyes. When George spoke of you and Fred dove into his usual blithe ridicule, his eyes did not crease and George's skepticism grew.

They had paved things over with many cracks left that they chose to ignore, namely, their refusal to tell the other about each kiss shared with you.

Since childhood, they had grown used to telling the other every thought that went through their head, but this rut had shifted out of place when you stood a clear conflict of interest, even in your absence.

They could both go on pretending they didn't cross the line, the same as you.

Chapter Text

Something had felt off in the morning as you straightened your tie on the way to class and looked out of a window to see a ship emerging from beneath the surface of the black lake. Still, you had shrugged it off, for odd things were not uncommon in a school where magic was common practice. What could not be excused was the house-sized carriage pulled by winged horses that had disturbed your lunch.

By the time dinner had arrived, you were famished from the amount of rumours spread in the span of hours, and you were sprinting just to keep up with them. So exhausted that your nap following your fourth and final class of the day had turned into a long period of slumber. By the time you woke up in a cold sweat, you were alone in your dorm with the moon hanging in the place you could've sworn the sun had been.

Upon the realization that it was dinner on the evening before Halloween, and you had been sleeping through it. You slipped into your stiff school-issued shoes and padded down to the great hall, missing your robes, tie, and socks. The great hall was filled with excited chatter.

It seemed no one was eating, each body far too excited to dig into the feast before them. What stood out amongst the almost average feast was the boys and girls in blue silk uniforms sitting at the Ravenclaw table, and juxtaposed to the serene students were angry bodies clad in fur and thick dark cloaks. They all brooded with the Slytherins.

You walked with little grace, tiptoeing almost pressed to the walls like you were in the midst of a grand heist. Only one soul paid you mind, Fred. His eyes locked onto you, your unkempt uniform, baby hairs flying wildly from your scalp. He thought you beautiful all the same.

Through the dense crowd, you still found your way to Cedric. It seemed he saved you a spot. "Who are these people?"

"Where have you been?" Cedric looks at you, face unimpressed.

"I was catching up on some beauty rest."

"You missed the whole feast."

"I'm here, aren't I?" you corrected brightly, "Lennie never woke me up." You gesture to the girl across the table from you, in her own conversation

"You seemed so peaceful," Lennie answers, straight-faced, looking over for only a second.

"Really?" Your face softens, "That was kind. I suppose I need the rest if my body lets me sleep that long." Her sweet lyrics had buttered you up in seconds, and already, you were cured of your resentful state. You reach for the mashed potatoes in the centre of the table and plot them against your barren plate.

You swallow a scoop of your potatoes and turn toward Cedric, leaning so close he has to pull back a little to avoid being hit by the wild swing of your hair.

"Alright, tell me properly," you say, eyes wide with curiosity. "What is all this? Are we hosting Eurovision?"

Cedric sets down his goblet, sighing like he's already resigned to explaining. "It's the Triwizard Tournament," he says simply.

Your expression doesn't change for a beat. "The what?"

"The Triwizard Tournament," he repeats, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth now that you've properly taken the bait. "Three schools compete, Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. Each one chooses a champion, and they face a series of... well, dangerous tasks. It hasn't been held in centuries."

"Dangerous tasks?" you echo, sitting bolt upright. "As in life-threatening?"

Cedric shrugs. "Some of them, yeah."

"Oh, that's brilliant," you say, nearly vibrating with excitement. "Absolutely brilliant! Centuries, you said? It's like something out of a history book. Dragons, maybe? Cursed mazes? Secret riddles guarded by sphinxes?"

"I don't know about all that," Cedric says, chuckling, "but it's supposed to be an honour. Champions earn glory for their schools. There'll be judges, international attention-"

"Who are the champions?"

"Dunno yet, Dumbledore said they would be selected; anyone can put their name in. They win a prize."

"You are putting your name in," You say immediately.

"I couldn't," He brushes you off, shaking his head, but you persist.

"You must!"

"What about you?"

"If I did it simply wouldn't be fair to the other contestants," You shrug. "Ced, I'm so serious, you have to."

"No-no, it's so-

"Cedric, you would be an incredible champion!"

"I just can't," He shakes his head.

"Please!" You clasp your hands together. "You'd be brilliant, Ced. You're practically made for it! You're smart, you're good at flying, you actually listen in class and you don't faint at the sight of blood. That's, like, four advantages already."

He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. "You're really laying it on thick."

"Because you're not taking it seriously! Cedric, you have to."

"You have to, or she won't stop," Renata says, before tuning back into her other conversation.

Cedric looks from Renata to you, "I don't have to do anything," he says, though there's no real bite to his words. "It's not exactly a picnic. Dangerous, remember?"

You wave that off like he's being dramatic. "Dangerous, yes, but legendary! You'd go down in history. Remember what your dad said? That's something you'll tell your kids one day!"

"Now you're exaggerating."

"Maybe." A coy smile, leaning in until he can't avoid your gaze, "But it's true. You're perfect for it. If you don't put your name in, you'll regret it forever."

He looks at you and then studies further, the way your eyes are shining at the notion, sleep-filled only moments ago, and you have been shaken to life by this concept. You bit your bottom lip in heavy anticipation, your entire body tense and leaning into him. He knew you better than anyone and knew how often you would flatter them like you were praying at their altar. Though you sat earnestly, pleading with him through the softness of your face, he would feel like he had done you wrong if he didn't.

"Do you honestly believe that?" He asks, voice low. His lilt had lost all humour, now pulpy and gentle as raindrops upon water.

"Of course I do."

There were not truer words you could have spoken, not when all of you knew Cedric to be the epitome of bravery and compassion. Since he was young and coltish, he had a gold-plated heart, soft and shimmery. Cedric mulls it over for a moment, weighing the possibilities before he answers, "If you think I can, then I will."

"Oh, Cedric!" Your arms are quick to envelop him in a hug that may have crushed a brittle boned child. "You haven't a clue how proud I am."

"Relax, I haven't done anything yet."

"But you will do everything, I know it."

"You seem to know a lot of things."

"I do!" You exclaim, "I have a heart likened to that of a unicorn, and it tells me you are pure as fresh fallen snow."

"Did your unicorn heart also give you the answers to the Astronomy test?"

"Of course it did, you can imagine how often a unicorn may stargaze," You say, half nonsense, "Almost as often as I think of you."

"Laying it on too thick." He shakes his head.

"Too thin, if anything."

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Professor Trelawney's classroom smelled like burnt sugar and wilted roses, the air thick with incense that made your eyes sting and your thoughts feel slippery. You were already halfway convinced you might pass out from the fumes when Trelawney's voice floated over the haze, dreamy, distant, and vaguely tragic.

"Pair off, my dears. Seek within the lines of fate and reveal what the stars conceal."

You turned to find George Weasley looking directly at you, his eyebrows raised like he was offering a dare rather than a partnership. "Don't all rush at once," you said dryly, gesturing for him to sit across from you.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he replied, dragging his chair over. His grin was easy but his eyes were still shadowed from the night in the woods.

You both set your elbows on the little round table, the mismatched teacups rattling with the motion. George reached out his hand, palm up, feigning a look of exaggerated seriousness. "Go on then, Seer of Doom. Tell me how I die."

"Eaten alive by your own ego, most likely."

He snorted, "Brutal start. You sure you're not reading Fred's palm?"

You sighed dramatically but took his hand anyway. It was warm, calloused, ink-stained, with a few faint scars around the knuckles. You tried to ignore the pulse that jumped in your wrist as you traced the lines on his palm.

"Hmm," you murmured, pretending to scrutinize it. "Long life line, decent head line. Heart lines, well, that's messy."

He raised an eyebrow. "Messy how?"

"Like someone spilled tea over it. You're doomed romantically, I'm afraid."

"Oh, that's rich," he said. "From you, of all people."

You glanced up only briefly before focusing back on his hand, one of yours gingerly holding it while a careful finger traced the lines of his palms. "Oh," You say dramatically, "I've been mistaken."

"Do tell."

"Your love life will be wild assuredly, but there is hope."

He acts like it's a saving grace, tilting his head back with faux relief, "Hope? For someone like me?"

"If you can believe it."

"Alright, let me take a crack," He removes his hand from your gentle grasp, turning your hand palm up to the incense-hazed ceiling.

You sighed, more for effect than protest, and set your hand in his. His calloused hands were warm, much more welcoming than yours. You watched him study your palm, brow furrowed with exaggerated seriousness. There was a part of you that wanted to retract your hand; despite the class being nonsense, you felt as if you were in peril, all too vulnerable.

It was a fallacy of course; rationally, the fear inside you lay with the idea it might not be.

"Hmm," he hummed. "Interesting."

"Oh no," you said, feigning a smile. "That doesn't sound good."

"It's just odd," he said softly. "This line, your heart line, it breaks here." His thumb brushed over the crease, tracing where it forked near your wrist.

Something inside you went still. You couldn't have said why, the touch, maybe, or the way he said it so quietly. You felt a sharp, inexplicable ache twist beneath your ribs, and you pulled your hand back before you could stop yourself.

George blinked, surprised. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you said too quickly, tucking a loose hair behind your ear. "Just ticklish."

He looked at you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to press. Then he leaned back in his chair, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "You're not ticklish."

"I'm not, I lied." You confirm.

"What's the matter?" His eyebrows furrow.

"Nothing," You say, "Frightful, I suppose."

"Of me?"

"No, not of you, I'm only-" You pause, trying to string a coherent sentence together. "I didn't lie, I am ticklish, I lied twice, I'm sorry. I just lied again, you're right, I'm not ticklish." Your ramblings did not help your case at all. George is still watching you; it's not challenging, it's simply patience.

You rub the heel of your palm like his fingers had left a burn upon it. You bite the inside of your cheek and stop once you realize what you're doing. He doesn't rush to fill the gaps of silence the way he might if Fred had been seated at that table. You feel like a fool, such a reaction to one sentence and now your stare bears into him- torn between rambling into a childish flow as you often did, or bathing in the uncomfortable silence. It made no sense to feel uncomfortable at all, not when you could confide in George as you had back on that night, dimly lit by the moon.

"It spooked me, is all," You speak at last.

"Divination is a spooky thing."

"It's silly," You shake your head, "I know it's not real."

"Gobbledegook," He smiles, though your admittance does not ease you.

George holds his hand out once more, his expression soft as cashmere. From across the cramped table, you can vaguely smell the scent of firewood from his sweater; you knew he liked to sit by the fire to mull things over long and often.

"Right," You gently take his hand. This time, you study the lines with great intensity. "I'll be serious, I promise."

"You mean to say you weren't serious about my messy heart lines?"

"I'm a great fraud, I'm afraid," You speak, meeting his eyes through your lashes. "You should know me well enough not to believe a word that I say."

"I suppose I should interrogate you longer."

"Indefinitely." You glance at George's hand to your wide-open book often, narrowing your eyes between the two. "It seems you have water hands, which means you're in tune with your emotions."

"Any good man is."

"But it also means you're incredibly sensitive and get your feelings hurt often," You frown briefly, flickering your eyes up at him. "Poor thing."

He sniffles, turning his head away from you dramatically. You pull him closer with a tender tug to inspect his palm. His hand is warm in yours, not clammy and uncomfortable, but steady within your own as a lock keeps the clasp. You flip to the next page of your ridiculously large book whose readings don't prove to be helpful in their own right. It speaks of the stars and planets aligning, not much on the anatomy you were staring at.

"Alright, and your life line is very deep, but it seems short-

"I'm going to die?" He cuts you off.

"Well, no, I don't think so," You skim through the passages until you see the reminder of what Trelawney had drawn on about. "It means you live independently; others don't have a lot of influence on you." You raise an eyebrow, he does the same. It was needless to point out that he had a twin brother, the two of them being closer than close could be.

He huffs a laugh, "Not sure I've lived independently at any point in my life."

"First time for everything, babes," You move onto tracing the line right beneath his fingers, "So your heart line starts right under your middle finger, meaning that you will be... not-so-content within your relationships?" Intending to say this in a hopeful manner, it fell more to sounding like pity. "Sorry."

"Not your fault, love," He shrugs it off, but inside himself, he knows it is your fault to some extent. If you had returned his feelings back in the heat of those bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, he may be content, but for now, he stirs. "What about my sun line?"

"It's very deep and clear, that's good. So you are going to be very successful and well-liked."

"I already am," He scoffs, "I could've told you that."

"Oh, and it also says you have a big head."

"You have me mistaken."

"I could never mistake you, George."

Your smile is as soft as plush grass, which accompanies the symphony of a stream. It reminds him of the summer back home, that your face was that of sunlight and warm rays. He hates it. Not that he may not be your lover, but that he knows you only as a friend, a shell of friendship at that.

Fred had scolded him that you treat everyone the way you treat him, and he couldn't see you quite the same. George was sure that Fred saw you differently than he did; George had loved your smile, and he was glad to let you smile.

His brother saw this as a facade. He dug for something deeper, and George knew he would never find it, not with his clumsy hands.

"I do mean to ask," You interrupt his sudden bout of silence, "Are you coming to the forbidden forest tonight?"

"Of course," He seems almost offended that you had to ask.

"Really?" You perk up, "What will you dress as?"

"Uh, myself?"

Your smile drops at once. "You can't do that."

"How come?"

"It's Halloween!" You drop his hand.

"And?"

"We're supposed to dress up."

"I have not dressed up once on Halloween; it's more of a muggle thing."

"There's a first time for everything," You reiterate.

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"I'm quite skilled, you will come to find." You drag your red lipstick over George's eye with a steadiness you weren't even aware you had.

"I'm finding it," He opens his eye ever-so-slightly, not slight enough for it to escape your notice as you give him a stern look to close it again. He's still in his school uniform, albeit a little frazzled, his sleeves pulled up to his elbows, his large hands resting patiently on his thighs.

Both of you sat on his bed; he sat criss-cross while you moved endlessly to reach the perfect angles to apply his makeup. You pull away to study your work this far and do not bother to fight the smile that consumes you, "George!" You squeak.

"What?"

"This looks so good and I'm not even kidding!"

"Can I see then?"

"No, I'm not done," You smudge a bit of the lipstick with your fingertip to fill in the blank area around his eyelid. "But it looks really good."

"I believe you."

You pause, pulling your hand away for just a moment before saying a soft "Thank you."

Working with what you had on hand, you believe it yourself. You had your costume planned since last year, when you found out about this six-year tradition, but you hadn't thought long enough to bring something spare for the witches and wizards who knew not of the tradition of Halloween.

"Why do muggles dress up again?"

"I just asked Nigel this!" Reaching for your eyeshadow palette, you smear your finger in the blue and carefully trace the red line you had made. "He was very kind to answer me so eloquently, he told me that they did it way back when to ward off evil spirits, but now it's just for fun, and how lovely is that- that we can dress up all silly for the sake of being silly and not be afraid. How terrible it must've been to be a child back then."

"That is lovely," George's mouth twitches, the beginning of a smirk he's trying not to let you see. "And terrible all the same," he says lightly. "Imagine being small and defenceless and seeing- what's that ghastly thing you showed me earlier?"

"It was a witch mask, George."

"That is cruel," He says pointedly, "You don't take offence to that as witch yourself?"

"No," You shrug, "They're only children."

"Right," He concurs, "If they knew what you really looked like, they would be ashamed to mock you."

You snort and nearly smear blue across his eyebrow. He tilts his chin up obediently as you steady his face with your palm.

You press your thumb gently to George's cheekbone, tilting his face toward the lantern light. The room glows gold against the cool pigment on your fingertips, and George sits obediently, legs crossed, shoulders relaxed, but his breath noticeably deeper now.

"Hold still," you murmur.

"I am," he replies, though his voice comes out lower than he intended.

You pick up the blue shadow, swirl your finger into it, and smooth the colour along his eyelid with slow, deliberate strokes. The pigment catches on the soft skin there, and George's lashes flutter at the sensation before he forces them still again.

"That tickles," he mutters.

"You're ticklish?" you ask, smiling

"No, I lied," He smiles, coy like a cat sprawled languid upon a windowsill.

"Give me a break, at least I told you I was lying."

"Wouldn't matter, I can tell when you're lying."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course," George says before quickly changing subjects, "What of the sweets? Why do children get sweets?"

"Don't try to make sense of what won't make sense."

You stop moving for half a second at that, your breath catching, just barely and George notices. Of course he does. He notices everything about you. The slightest shift in your breathing feels like a sound in the stillness between you.

"Look up," you whisper.

He does, his chin tilting, exposing the line of his throat. The lamp light glints off the red streak you've painted, vivid against his skin.

You drag your finger along the newly drawn line, smoothing it with a tenderness that borders on reverent. Your touch lingers an instant too long. George feels the warmth of your fingertip long after you pull away.

"Perfect," you say softly, half to yourself.

He opens one eye, studying your face far more intently than his reflection. "I haven't even seen you concentrate this hard on the O.W.L.S."

You scoff lightly, dipping your brush into the next colour. "Well, I wouldn't want to disgrace the spirit of Bowie."

"Is that who I am, then?" His voice has that playful lift again, but quieter now, more intimate.
"David Bowie?"

"Mhm." You lean in again, your chest almost brushing his knees. "Starman era. Maybe Aladdin Sane if you behave."

"Is this what behaving gets me?" he asks, and his breath fans warm across your knuckles. "Then I'll be an angel."

"You are definitely an angel, Georgie."