The evening had just begun to set within the firmament, forcing the skies to change pigment from its traditional lapis, to a golden-tinged coral, before diffusing to a wreath of liquid copper, until it, finally, suffused into the deepest sable that overtook the coming of darkness. The late November night was accentuated by the crisp plunge of the coming winter's chill, and England was encased within the sepulchral onset of a night that would hold, not only, the mirth of the impossible, but the beginning of the beginning – which is where all stories start.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry stood tall; silhouetted magnificently against the grey-streaked skies, and glowing from within by the utility of numerous torches; all blazing with the intensity of a thousand suns. Humming quietly to himself, Fred Weasley brusquely walked between the bookshelves of the near-empty library; replacing and returning several hardbound volumes. It was a Friday night, and while everyone was enjoying dinner, there he was, serving the last of his detention for placing dungbombs under Marcus Flint's chair during a Potions class the previous week.

Now, as Fred realised very well, it had been nothing short of epic seeing the slimy Slytherin git get ricocheted by the force, and enveloped by the odour, of the dungbombs. However, he also realised that Potions was a class where entertainment was of no value when one Severus Snape was on hand to inflict torture upon them. Maybe it was all that grease in his hair that blocked humour's way into Snape's skull.

Hence, Fred was in the library, doomed to assisting a very beady Madame Pince every evening, until well after dinner, for a solid week. This wasn't too horrid a situation, considering that the old bat kept to herself, but, somehow or the other, the suffocating wrath of the library always got to him. Easing his way over the wood-panelled floors, the six-foot tall red-head wound his way through the serpentine aisles, desperately seeking a place to shove the volume he had grasped nimbly in his hands in a place where it would remain unnoticed by Madame Pince until well after he was shot of his detention period.

That's when Fred noticed her; leaning carefully against a shelf, sifting through a leather-bound copy of Fantastic Beasts and where to find Them. She was clad in her usual evening uniform of stonewashed jeans, and a pale blue blazer, with her face contorted into an expression that glared confusion.

But Fred did not find it surprising to see her there – considering she recently spent almost all of her free time hovering above books and scrutinising text. Nor did he find it surprising that her face depicted confusion; it was one of three of her existing facial expressions (the most popular one being a delineation of unabashed disgust, which Fred had been the victim of numerous times). No, what bugged Fred most was the fact that the girl had pulled out various books from the shelf she was standing against – a shelf, okay THE shelf, that Fred had actually bothered to sort out.

'Um...excuse me?' He asked, stopping in front of the girl, and praying to dear God that he didn't sound as agitated as he felt.

The girl did not look up at once. Actually, she didn't look up at all. She was immersed in the textbook that was in her bony hands, and looked as if panic was overwhelming her. Fleur Delacour was, of course, no ordinary French girl. There was nothing ordinary about the vivaciousness of the cerulean that filled her bright irises, and there was nothing usual about the way her tendrils, set in a sleek ponytail, reached her waist in a straight column of silver-blond. Her pale complexion, and her slender frame were of no common make either; both were accentuated by a natural blush that crept to her cheeks, and a rigid posture that held her straight, respectively. No, Fleur Delacour was no ordinary girl. But at that moment, she was oblivious to the world around her.

Annoyed, Fred pressed, 'Excuse me?'

Silence.

'Fleur?' He addressed the girl standing before him; a slight hint of exasperation flavouring his tone.

Suddenly, Fleur looked up from the book; her eyes bloodshot, and her voice high, 'Oui?'

'Are you going to put those books back, or not?'

Fred's expression had gradually grown softer. He could sense the desperation behind the one syllable that the French girl had answered him with – and he could give her leeway to justify it: she was a Triwizard Champion, and the first task was only two days away.

'Eh...no, I will be needing zem.' Came the reply, crisp and yet unsure.

Normally, Fred would have taken this as his cue to leave, and would have rushed back at breakneck speed to the Gryffindor common room to salvage the rest of the night. But, and this could be the aftermath of spending five hours with Madame Pince talking, he stayed, rooted to the spot, and wondering what the hell could have turned his female counterpart from the elitist snob that she was, into the sombre, and almost – almost! – reasonable human that stood in front of him.

'D'you need help with those?' Fred huffed, hastily stuffing the book that was in his own hands into the nearest empty slot on the mahogany shelf, and bending over to pick up the mass of textbooks that Fleur had stacked up on the floor.

Fleur was surprised – suspicious, even. She knew Fred Weasley, by reputation, not name, and the only explanation she could surmise for a Hogwarts student wanting to help her, was to help Harry Potter or Cedric Diggory cheat off of her.

'No.' she answered, shooting a poisonous glance towards the red-head, and prising the books from within his grasp.

'Just trying to help.'

'I don't need your 'elp.'

Fleur watched the English boy turn to leave; his jet-black robes swishing around his lean figure as he moved. And that's when her attention was diverted to the fact that there was no way in hell that she could ever carry a stack of books that weighed thrice her own self. And she didn't have her wand either.

'Wait!' She called out, a tiny smile creeping up to her lips, 'Meester -'

'Weasley. Fred Weasley.' Fred finished for her; turning around; the beginnings of an expectant grin starting to etch themselves upon his lightly freckled visage. 'Yeah, I'll help you out.'

Fleur flushed, out of embarrassment rather than anything else. But five minutes later, they were striding across the Hogwarts grounds; Fleur leading the way, while Fred scrambled behind her. She knew that there were two of them – two of the Weasley twins – but what surprised her was how independent the one with her was. Fred was tall, insanely so, and even under the ugly disguise of his school robes, a lean and rather toned figure was easily traceable. His hair was a light shade of rouge – so light, that upon first look, it seemed to fall effortlessly, in golden sheets, upon his broad shoulders and into his chocolate brown eyes.

'You know, anybody could stun you or something. Why would someone go around without a wand? Perfect target, you are.' Fred idly tried to make conversation, stifling a yawn in the process.

Snapping out of her reverie, Fleur shot him a furtive look that soon dissolved into severe irritation. 'Are you trying to kidnap me, Meester Weezley?'

'No, but I could.'

'Ah, but you are a leetle boy. I am much more experienced zan you are in zeese matters.'

Fred couldn't suppress a laugh; as he allowed it to escape his lips. 'Are you going to defend yourself with your ponytail or something?'

Before Fleur could even contemplate to think of a response, they had reached the gargantuan, powder-blue Beauxbatons carriage; the darkness of night ensconcing them, save for the gentle steel of light that the moon half-heartedly provided.

'Well, Meester Weasley, I will take it from here.' Fleur nodded, her countenance rigid; her tone capable of causing frostbite.

Silently, and struggling to masquerade the grin that had permanently carved itself upon his own face, Fred set down the books he'd been subjected to carrying on the gold-hued steps of the massive carriage; his hair falling softly onto his face as he bent downwards.

'Alright, Mademoiselle Delacour,' he began, straightening up and smiling impishly; a glow of pure mischief glinting in his eyes, 'Goodnight.'

'Goodnight.' Fleur bade him, rolling her eyes and turning away to mount the carriage.

Fred continued to smile – afraid that his face might just be permanently set into the expression that he had had plastered over his countenance for the past five minutes. Turning around, he quietly began to make his way back up to the castle. Until –

'Hey, Fleur?' He shouted, rather loudly; his voice sprinkled with a definite tone of mirth.

The French girl whipped around, her eyes livid. 'What?'

'Good luck for the first task.'

And so Fred left; completely aware that he had just left a very flustered Fleur Delacour in his wake.