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It was an unusually warm summer night in London, even warmer with all of your childhood friends cuddled into one bedroom. It was only the two months of summer and the occasional Christmas when you would see the girls you grew up with.
Now that summer was lulling to an end, the air was beginning to grow crisper and the wind harsher. You were savouring the final days to hold onto until winter break came around. Camille leaned against the pink floral wallpaper, a stuffed bear in her lap. She looked like such magic in that moment, long silky hair spilling down her shoulders, and her button nose turned away from you.
"Do you think my tits have gotten any bigger over the summer?" Lana examines herself in the floor-length mirror, hands cupped under her bra.
"Yeah, you went from an A to a double A," Kira giggled.
Lana shoots her a nasty look, one of a warning, before she disregards this snide remark, "Still bigger than Jenny Carson, right?"
"Who's Jenny Carson?" You peep. While you got to go to a school where magic quite literally flowed through the air and creatures grew from the earth, you missed the normalcy with your girls. The longer you went to Hogwarts, the further you grew apart. This summer, you struggled to keep up with their romantic lives and didn't understand the inside jokes, but you still laughed along.
"A slag, honestly. Don't worry about it, Bunny," Camille dismissed wth her sweet lilt. She was the poshest without a single effort, the nickname you hated sounded so delicious falling from her lips.
Bunny was once so irritating, but as your friend picked up the name, it somehow fell endearing.
"Seriously, Bunny. I'm going to miss you so bad when you go back to that posh private school," Lana frowns. "You could be in the caf making fun of Jenny with us."
"I know." You're sitting next to Camille on the bed, abundant with blankets, your knees pulled to your chest.
The landline rings.
Kira's eyes grow wide and wild as she lunges for the light pink wall phone. The other girls seem to share a look of amused understanding, but you're left in the dust, confused and adrift by your lonesome. "Hello?" She says, her glossy pink lips growing into a smile. "It's Kira."
"Who is it?" You ask.
"SHHHH!" Kira holds a perfectly manicured finger up to silence you. She holds her hand over the receiver and fiercely whispers, "It's Matthew."
Camille and Lana squeal excitedly. Camille bites her perfect, pouty bottom lip and leans forward in anticipation, though your heart stops. You've spent all six years at Hogwarts telling your dormmates about Matthew and his broodingly handsome stature. His eyes were the colour of pure Aquamarine. You still fantasize about being with him as you drift to sleep.
You had a horribly consuming crush on him from the day you left to this very moment. He had always been kind to you, answering the letters you wrote him at school, confirming that you were indeed very pretty and didn't need the makeup you smeared on every morning.
Just last week, he had given you his jacket when your friends met with his to drink in the park. His denim coat felt like the arms you'd dreamed of wrapping around you, and it was like heaven. You walked home with it on and held it all through the night, breathing in the scent of teenage boy, only to wake and ramble to your friends over the phone about the flurry of emotions that was surging through your hot red blood.
"Yeah, she's here," Kira says. The three of you watch with baited breath. "You wanna talk to her?"
You almost instinctively stand to grab the phone, but are brought back down to earth with the words that follow.
"Cam, it's for you," Kira passes the phone into her small hand, which takes hold of it eagerly. She laughs that perfect laugh into the phone. The whole room went deaf in your ears, replaced by a calm kind of ringing.
The moments pass by, giggles bounce off the walls, and the longer you listen, the more it begins to sound like a fork shoved into a blender.
Your heart drops and stills for a moment. You think about what to do. Was it worth disputing? Perhaps he had never liked you, and you spent all of this time reading friendship as romance. How silly.
He had always favoured Camille; you were a pity. As her friend, he had to be kind to you. Surely. You bring yourself back and fake a smile that eggs her on as the staticy conversation slows to an end.
"Yeah, I'll see you there," He grins and shows a row of movie star teeth. "Bye." She puts the phone back down with a click and jumps on the bed, shoving her face into a fuzzy white blanket. She screams.
"WHAT DID HE SAY?" Lana shakes Camille; her blonde twin braids sway with the movement.
"He asked me out!" Her smile is so wide it crinkles her eyes. "Like proper asked me out, just us!"
"What are you gonna do?" Kira pushes.
"He's taking me for dinner."
"When?"
"Tomorrow!"
"What are you going to wear?"
"I haven't got a clue," She pushes herself up and paces. "I could wear my Calvin's and-
Her eyes catch yours, now watery. The humiliation pushed tears to your eyes. You remembered how kind and thoughtful you had been towards him, and now you often gushed to Camille about your foolish indulgences.
"Bunny, are you okay?" She asks, eyes softening. She presses a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with realization. "Bollocks. I didn't even think- I," Camille stammers, "I'm so sorry, Bunny, I can call him right now and tell him no."
"No, it's okay," You smile through glassy eyes. The girls look at you with a strange, unwelcoming pity. "I don't even like him anymore."
"Surely you do, I'm the worst friend ever!" She plops herself down beside you, her dark eyebrows knitted tightly together.
"No, I'm serious," You sniff. "You guys should go out."
"I can't do that to you-
"I have a boyfriend," The words slip out of you before they even process in your brain. You certainly didn't. You dreamed that Matthew was your boyfriend, and that's the closest you've come.
"A boyfriend?" Camille's face morphs into one of pure and utter confusion.
"Bunny's got a boyfriend?" Kira paraphrases the question once more.
"You haven't mentioned him all summer," Lana points out.
"I didn't want to talk about boys all summer," You murmur.
"Who is he?"
"Do we know him?" Camille asks.
"No, we go to school together."
"What's his name?" Kira has a sparkle of skepticism in her eyes; it seemed wildly clear that she didn't believe you.
You thought of every boy in your grade and quickly narrowed it down to your close group of friends, your closest friend, "Fred."
"Fred?" Camille tucks a brunette strand behind her ear. "He's finally asked you out?"
Camille was always the one to whom you confided. When she pried about your school year, you spat out white lies about your friends and classes, making them sound as plain and muggle as her life was. She had accused you and Fred of harbouring mutual feelings for one another, which you adamantly denied, because your heart had belonged to Matthew for seven years.
"Yup," You laugh awkwardly. "Who saw it coming?"
"Fred?" Lana bites her lip in deep thought, "I haven't got a clue who that is."
"Ring him," Kira insists. "I wanna talk to him."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
He was a wizard and lived far away from any service, let alone Muggle technology.
"He's gone camping with his family until Sunday," Another dreadful lie.
"Do you have a picture?" Lana tries desperately to jog her memory.
"No-
"He must be minging," Kira snorts.
"He's not!" You deny, "He's tall, and funny, and terribly handsome."
"Wish I could believe you."
You move from the bed and rifle through your bag. Searching each and every pocket. Mostly, there were loose miscellaneous items that had no real purpose and buried things which did. Finally, you found your slim stack of Polaroids, frantically searching for one in particular, and then you find it.
You intended to take a picture with Angelina, the two of you smiling and posing in front of the black lake. At the last moment, Fred had jumped into the picture, snaking his hand around your waist, a big goofy smile on his face. George had been the one to take the photo and, coincidentally, cut Angelina out, focusing solely on his brother with you on the side looking rageful. You remember being furious that he had jumped into the photo to butcher the last piece of film you had, meaning you would have to write home and plead for more. You never let George hold a camera again.
"Here," You hand them the photo, which they inspect closely. Kira seems the tiniest bit angry to be proven wrong.
Camille is the one to hand the photo back, a contented smile on her face. "I mean- You're back for Christmas, you should bring him round sometime."
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The weather seemed to pick up on your mood and sent its tears of rain droplets to beat against the windows of the Hogwarts Express. Even the sky mourned for your humiliation. The last days of summer were spent watching Camille and Matthew enjoy their newfound fling while your heart, cracked, bent, and then broke entirely.
You opened compartment after compartment to find one that was empty so you could wallow with the full space of a carriage, sprawl out your legs and weep. Though there had yet be be any tears, not from your eyes.
All you did was whistfully stare out the window as students boarded the express while you replayed the moment in your mind over and over again. Camille was shoving her massive bouquet of flowers in your face, with hickeys on her neck, while she rambled on end. Never had a boy left you with flowers. All you received was an ache in your chest.
He smiled at you the next day. Not a word of Camille. Not a word of the kiss you shared weeks before. In the end, it was only a kiss. You didn't share with him what Camille did. Or at least you did not have what she had. The long silky hair, sparkling white teeth, the girl next door magic.
"Oi, Bunny!' The door slips open and in spills two lanky boys atop with ginger hair and treachery in their eyes. "We've been looking all over for you." It's Fred who smiles at you. He's in a warm-toned flannel that seemed almost baggy on him years prior, though it seemed the opposite this September.
"Hiding from us, are you?" George stands just behind him. When you can't quite forge the words out of your mouth, he presses once more. "Are you feeling alright?"
Then the tears came; they had been simmering inside of you and finally reached the boiling point. Every word you tried to speak came out as a garbled, incoherent wreck. The brothers looked at one another, Fred sliding the door closed.
You frantically wiped tears with the back of your hands, smearing your mascara with a trembling lip. "I'm the biggest fool on this earth!"
"Oh, Bunny," Fred sits next to you, awkwardly trying to soothe you by patting you like a dog. Stroking your hair with his calloused hand. "You're the third after George and me." Your sobbing intensifies.
"Freddie..." George sucks a breath between his teeth. He sits opposite you, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his jean-clad knees. "Tell us what happened. His face holds sincerity, like every. thought running through his head is a worry. "When you're ready," He adds.
It takes a moment for you to compose yourself the way you would a song or a speech. The whole time you do, you feel no less of a fool. How silly of you to feel so deeply over a crush. "It's Matthew." You sniffle.
The last time the twins had heard of him was when you had written to share with them the kiss that set a fire inside you. You wrote with such fervour, such detail, you were sure they had their noses wrinkled all the while reading it. They share a knowing look before you continue.
"He's dating Camille," You say at last.
It takes a moment for George to process what this means to you, but when it does, his eyes widen, hands flying to grip his hair. "What?!" It's clear to see he's exaggerating, but it does ease your pain. "What a git!"
"What a pair of gits!" Fred corrects.
You have no retort to defend either party. Camille had sworn up and down that she didn't think you liked him anymore, but that seemed far from the truth when you had ranted long and often about Matthew.
"Forget them!" George says. The conversation quickly turns into Fred and George taking their turns, throwing insults at your friends. It fades into the background noise that doesn't fully register in your brain. "Bunny, let me just say this. There are far better than Matthew."
"Yeah," Fred nods in solidarity.
"And we'd be happy to wingman you."
"Yeah- what?" Fred turns his attention from you to his brother.
"I've just heard Graham Barker has had a nasty breakup."
"Graham?"
"Yes, Nadia chewed him right up."
"No- I know. I mean- is Graham really the right guy?"
"Well, what's wrong with him?"
"His hair is all," Fred wriggles his fingers over his head, gesturing in an odd manner.
George narrows his eyes. "His hair?"
"Yeah."
"That makes him unsuitable?"
"Well, we can't let Bunny here get her heart broken again."
"She won't," He scrunches up his face. "We're finding a rebound, no strings attached."
"She doesn't want that!"
"How would you know?"
"I've known her longer." Fred folds his arms.
"Well, you could ask her," George gestures to you, sitting shoulder to shoulder with his brother, who had proudly spoken on your behalf. "Well?"
You look the at the pair. You had the choice to stay down or crawl back up to your feet. "No strings attached," You repeat with a wet face.
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The dining hall was bustling with ravenous students as it so often was this point in the evening. Students lined up tables; there was barely any speaking, just meats, potatoes, and warm buttery rolls being stuffed into maws. Graham seemed to be the only one more interested in pushing the food on his plate around than eating it.
"You're just going to go up to him, put on some of that charm, and he'll be the one asking you out. Let it flow." George had briefed you the entire week between classes and studying
"Georgie, She's a pro." Fred playfully nudges his brother, "Don't worry one bit. Make sure you ask him about his trip to Rome."
"Got it," You nod. The twins gave you a pat on the shoulder before departing to their table, while you continued walking until you reached Graham's table. He looks up at you, quirking an eyebrow.
In truth, you thought Graham was cute. It was hard not to with his curly hair and dimples.
"Hi," You smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear the way George had instructed you. "Do you mind if I sit here?"
"Sure," he says, voice a little flat but not unkind, gesturing to the empty bench across from him.
You slide into the seat, doing your best to keep George's Just be casual mantra looping in your head. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot the twins across the hall, pretending to be deeply invested in their roast chicken while unmistakably glancing your way every few seconds. Fred raises his eyebrows at you in a go on, then sort of motion.
"Hey," He looks to you "Did I see you at diagonally the other week?"
"Did you?" Your eyebrows furrow.
"Yeah, you were choking on your butter beer," He mentions and decides to specify, "At the Leaky Cauldron."
"So," You clear your throat, disregarding this and propping your elbows on the table in what you hope is a relaxed way, "how was your trip to Rome?"
For a second, Graham's fork stills mid-push, hovering over a lump of mashed potatoes. His eyes go a little glassy.
"It was..." He swallows, setting the fork down carefully. "It was fine. I mean-beautiful. Lots of history. The Colosseum was incredible." He pauses, his voice thinning. "But Nadia- Oh, Nadia..."
You blink, caught between the awkward weight of the confession and the fact that Fred and George are now leaning halfway across their table to eavesdrop. Fred had forgotten to mention how Nadia cheated on him with a lifeguard while he was on vacation.
"Oh," you say softly, the way someone might react to being told their cat has died. "Graham, I'm-"
But he's already covering his face with both hands, shoulders hitching. It's not loud crying, more the quiet, muffled sob of someone trying very hard not to make a scene but failing spectacularly.
And then, somehow, ridiculously, you feel the prick of tears yourself. "Matthew," You whine under your breath. Your throat tightens, and the next thing you know, you're both sitting there, red-eyed and sniffling over plates of untouched food.
Across the hall, Fred's grin falters just slightly. George mouths, What happened?
You try to mouth something back, but it comes out garbled, and Graham, misreading it entirely, gives a watery laugh that breaks into another sob. "She is such a twat," He shakes his head in his hands.
"Yeah, Matthew's a twat too," You nod in solidarity. The whole thing is a strange, damp loop neither of you can escape from.
By the time Graham finally wipes his face with a napkin, the rolls have gone cold, and the twins are looking in the opposite direction, like they don't know you at all.
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As things with Graham quickly turned sour, you set your sights on someone new. Marcel Ribbonson was your fresh target. You had spotted him on his way out of a Quidditch practice and quickly inquired to the twins about him.
Now you sat bundled up in your house scarf between the two of them, watching a Quidditch match in full swing. Things were heated between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Watching the game had always left your heart pounding with countless thoughts of all the injuries yet to be endured by players.
The Ravenclaw chaser swooped in an instant, nearly knocking a Slytherin chaser off her broom. You gasped, hands flying over your mouth, "Oh!"
They both remained fine, though, continuing the game with ease. You seemed to be the only person in the crowd concerned for their well-being. "What are you huffing and puffing over?" Fred quirks a brow.
"That!" You point at the game, "She could've died!"
"That's the fun of it," Fred waves you off, clapping loudly as Ravenclaw scores with the quaffell.
Your eyes are locked on Marcel as he hits the bludger with full force into a chaser. "Oh gosh," You watch it collide with him, sending the green-coated boy tumbling to the ground.
"Hold up your sign!" George grabs your wrist to bring your hand up, showing with pride what you had crafted the good old Muggle way. A number 3 with a heart beside it in sparkly blue glitter on a poster board. You made sure it was shiny enough to be seen across the pitch.
It catches his eye, and Marcel stops for a moment to look at you, smiling widely before he is called back by his teammates.
"Alright, enough of that," Fred pushes the board down. "You're going to blind someone."
"What are you whining for, Freddie? It worked!" George exclaims, shaking you by the shoulder.
He doesn't answer, just crosses his arms, looking visibly more closed off. He seemed awfully irritable as of late. In fairness, you had been stealing his brother away to plan out the schemes, and he had taken to distancing himself with the excuse of wanting to talk about something other than your love life.
It was valid enough.
"Aren't you cold?"
"Huh?" You were quite the opposite. It wasn't terribly cold, and your long-sleeve shirt was doing a good enough job of keeping you warm.
Fred shakes his head with a tsk. He yanks his Quidditch jumper off, leaving him in an old, ragged t-shirt. He holds the jumper out for a moment, you would've said 'No, I'm okay!' but he had already ripped it from his body, so you take it and yank it on over your current outfit, leaving you to feel as bundled and blubbery as a penguin.
"Thanks," You mumble through your scarf. Ever the people pleaser.
You're so focused on Fred that the game seems unimportant. He was near pouting, sat a half foot away from you and George. Too busy being fixated by the knit of his brow and the downturn of his lips, he notices before you do that a bludger has collided with your head, sending you backwards into the student beside you, who gasp and shriek.
"FUCK!" You yell, one hand gingerly reaching to the point of impact, "Yam it, that hurts!" You bite your bottom lip to keep yourself from crying. Your heart races even faster, adrenaline mixing with the caffeine, making you feel like you're vibrating from the inside out. The sharp sting of the impact, the throbbing pain, and the wetness of the blood all converge into a sensory overload that leaves you dazed and disoriented.
You stand there, swaying slightly, the world around you a blur of concern and panic. Someone shouts for help, their voice piercing through the fog in your mind. The match now feels distant and unreal, like a dream slipping away as you cling to consciousness. Every detail, every sensation is etched into your mind with excruciating clarity.
"Gosh," You mutter, agitation clinging to your words. You use the sleeve of Fred's jumper to haphazardly wipe away the blood pooling down your head. Everything seemed to get worse with every passing moment. You looked down at the red sleeve, now drenched with gore. "I'm bleeding!?"
The throbbing didn't ease when you woke in the infirmary. If anything, it hurt more, having settled in, it left you confused and limp with hurt.
"Took it like a champ," George kneels next to your cot.
"And it was the most exciting part of the game! You're way more interesting than Quidditch," Fred adds on, but it all sounds like gibberish to your ringing ears.
"What?" You squint your eyes. For once, you can't decipher who is who.
"Do you feel a bit lightheaded?" George asks.
"Sorry, should've given you a heads up," Fred grins.
"I'm so confused," You frown. Surely you had a concussion because everything was running through your brain like you had drunk three fire whiskeys.
"You'll be okay, don't lose your head over this," Fred holds back a laugh over the pun.
"Freddie, you should quit while you're ahead," His brother nudges him.
"I need a nap," You groan.
"You can do whatever you want," George answers, gently patting your arm. "C'mon Fred."
"I think I'll hang around," He says, "Just in case she needs Pomfrey."
George casts him an up and down look, "Just in case."
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The dungeon air was thick with the usual tang of stewed roots and something faintly acidic, the dim torchlight throwing shadows across the long tables. Weeks had passed since the Quidditch incident, but your head still ached in that dull, persistent way that made focusing on anything a small battle. You sat hunched over your cauldron, flipping between your notes and the copy of Advanced Potion-Making you were trying to catch up on, determined not to fall behind.
Snape's voice cut through the quiet like a whip, making you sit a little straighter, "do try not to let your... accident become an excuse for shoddy brewing."
"Yes, sir," you murmured, forcing your hands to steady as you measured the next ingredient.
Fred sat a row behind you with George, lazily stirring his potion while pretending not to pay attention to anything except the contents of his cauldron. In reality, his ears had pricked the moment Lochlan Fairburn, the tall Hufflepufff with a habit of talking too loudly, leaned toward his friend and muttered, just low enough to think no one could hear:
"Merlin, she's hot. I'm gonna ask her out after class. Maybe walk her back to her dorm."
Fred's stirring slowed to a stop. His jaw tightened.
"She's way out of your league, mate," Lochlan's friend laughed quietly.
"We'll see," Lochlan smirked, clearly feeling smug about his own plan.
Fred didn't bother turning around fully. Instead, his hand twitched ever so slightly over his cauldron, dropping in a single, completely unnecessary pinch of crushed fwooper feather into the boy's simmering brew.
The reaction was immediate. Lochlan's cauldron gave a low hiss before a puff of green smoke snaked upward, curling toward his robe. Within seconds, the hem of his sleeve was fizzing like a lit firework, and a thin tendril of smoke began to rise.
"What the-" Lochlan shot up so fast his stool clattered to the ground, flapping at his robe in a frantic attempt to snuff it out.
"Fairburn!" Snape barked. "Are you attempting to set a fire in my classroom?"
"N-No, sir! My potion-"
"Grew a mind of its own and added the wrong ingredients?"
"No, I-"
"Detention. Tonight."
"But-"
"Do not test me."
Lochlan sat back down, cheeks red and muttering under his breath as he scraped the ruined mess from his cauldron. Fred's quill tapped idly against his parchment, a picture of perfect innocence. George gave him the side-eye and a slow, knowing grin, but said nothing.
You didn't notice a thing- you were too busy scribbling notes, head bowed over your parchment, fighting to stay ahead. But when the corner of Fred's mouth curled up ever so slightly, it wasn't because his potion was going well.
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The library was quiet except for the scratch of Fred's quill and the occasional rustle of parchment. He sat sprawled out across the table, quill twirling between his fingers as he scribbled something that looked halfway between an elaborate doodle and an actual diagram. From the scowl of concentration on his face, you guessed it was one of his product ideas.
Across from him, you had a sheet of parchment folded into a crude frog shape. Your wand tapped lightly against its back, muttering incantations under your breath. The little paper creature gave an awkward twitch, then flopped onto its side in a pitiful heap.
"Come on," you whispered at it like coaxing a real animal. "Just one little hop, and then you can go straight to Elijah's desk tomorrow. Easy."
Fred didn't even look up. "If that thing starts singing and dancing, I'm charging you royalties."
You smirked but kept working, the paper finally giving a jerky little hop forward. You grinned, heart leaping almost as much as the frog.
"See? Perfect," you said. "I'll just enchant it to hop down the aisle, land on Elijah's desk, and say, 'Will you go to Hogsmeade with me?' Can you imagine his face?"
Fred's quill stilled mid-scratch. "Unfortunately, I can."
You blinked at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you've spent the last month crying over Matthew, making cards and signs for- Merlin, I can't even keep up anymore." His voice was casual, but the edge in it was unmistakable. "Maybe try focusing on yourself for five minutes."
You sat back, the frog still in your hand. "It's not like I'm forcing you to listen."
"Don't have to force me. You bring it up like it's the weather," he muttered, going back to his parchment with more force than necessary.
There was a brief silence, only broken by the faint plop as your frog gave another small hop toward the edge of the table. It slips off the table, and you don't bother to pick it up, mood squandered by Fred's harsh phrasing.
The quiet stretched between you and Fred until it wasn't just quiet, it was awkward. The kind that clung to the air like humidity, making every page turn sound too loud and every little movement feel magnified.
"I'm going to return this," you muttered, holding up a book as an excuse to get up. Fred didn't answer, just gave a vague nod without looking up from his parchment.
You slipped away into the maze of tall, shadowed shelves, breathing in the faint, dusty scent of parchment and ink. It felt good to be away from that table, even if only for a minute.
As you rounded the end of an aisle, you nearly walked straight into Marcel Ribbonson. He steadied you with a quick hand on your arm.
"Hey," he said, flashing that easy smile you'd noticed back at the Quidditch pitch. "I-uh-never got the chance to say this. I tried to visit you in the infirmary after the match, but..." He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. "Fred told me you didn't want to see anyone. Said I did enough damage."
You blinked. "He... did?"
"Yeah. Figured maybe you were still mad at me, you know... for, well..." His smile faltered. "For hitting the bludger at you. I'm really sorry about that, by the way. Total accident."
You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but the words tangled in your throat.
Marcel gave a sheepish shrug. "Anyway, just wanted you to know. I'll let you get back to... whatever you were doing." He offered a small wave and headed toward the library doors, his Quidditch robes swishing behind him.
You stood there, frozen, your fingers tightening around the spine of the book.
You set the book down on the table a little harder than necessary, the sound making Fred glance up from his parchment. His expression was unreadable, but there was that flicker, just a second, where he looked like he knew exactly what you were about to say.
"You Muppet! Why'd you tell Marcel not to see me in the infirmary?" you asked, keeping your voice low enough not to catch Madam Pince's wrath.
Fred's quill twitched in his hand. "Because you had a concussion and needed rest, not some prat hovering over you for a guilt trip."
You narrowed your eyes. "You could've just let me decide that."
He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms like you'd just said something ridiculous. "Oh, right, because you were in the perfect state to make decisions. Barely knew your own name that day."
"Still doesn't explain why you care so much," you pressed, pulse ticking up. "It's not like he was going to injure me with another bludger in the infirmary."
Fred's jaw tightened, but he looked away, pretending to adjust the stack of notes at his elbow. "I don't care. I just didn't want him bothering you."
"You don't care?" you repeated, leaning forward. "You've always got something to say? That's starting to sound a lot like caring."
His eyes flicked back to yours, sharp and stubborn, but there was something behind them—a crack in the usual smirk. "Maybe I just don't like watching you get caught up with idiots."
Your breath hitched, the paper frog between you on the table suddenly feeling ridiculous. "Or maybe you just don't want me caught up with anyone."
Fred's eyes held yours a beat too long, tension prickling between you like static.
"Merlin, you're impossible," you said, shoving the paper frog aside. "You act like I'm some helpless idiot who can't make her own choices-"
"That's not what I'm saying-"
"Yes, it is! You've been sticking your nose into every single thing I do, and for what? To keep me miserable and alone just because you think-"
He stood so suddenly his chair scraped against the stone floor. "No, because I can't stand watching you run after every bloke with dimples. How many times are you going to get rejected before you give up on this?"
"Screw you!" Your voice was sharper than you meant it to be.
Fred stared at you, his jaw working, and for a moment, you thought he might just storm out. Instead, he crossed the small space between you in two strides, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It was impatient, heated, the kind of kiss that made your breath catch and your knees feel unsteady before you even registered what was happening. His fingers slid into your hair, holding you there like he was afraid you'd pull away.
When he finally broke it, you were both breathing hard, your mind spinning as fast as your pulse. "You get it yet?"
You stared at him, words failing completely, the paper frog between you now nothing but a crumpled, forgotten prop in a scene you'd never planned for.