Beautiful Anger
Onesmartcookie78
Summary: They hated each other. But things change.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
"Frederick Gideon Weasley!" I screeched at the top of my lungs, holding a bottle of shampoo (I only now saw that the liquid inside was a shocking shade of green rather than lavender) and sporting a key-lime bob. I was soaking wet and wrapped in a dressing gown, hair limp and eyes furious. "George Fabian Weasley!"
Embarrassingly enough, I hadn't even thought to put clothes before I'd marched on into the Gryffindor common room. Furthering my anger, this wasn't even the fist time something like this had happened. In fact, it happened so often that strutting soaking wet into the Gryffindor common room after having terrorised some poor first year into telling me the password had become normal. I was used to it.
How does one become accustomed to such, you might ask? Well, when your arch-nemesis in every way is a red headed doppelgänger with a partner in crime and the only thing you have to do in order to gain access to your common room is solve a riddle...? I'll let you do the maths. Let me just say this: it never ends well for me, especially due to my hot-headness and inability to think things through.
"Yes, dear?" Fred, or maybe George, was smirking on the sofa, hand fisted and elbow leaning on his knee, chin resting on the innovative perch.
"You turned my hair green!" I spat, irritated that my shouting wasn't provoking the desired reaction. I wanted him to fight back too, dammit! If there was one thing I could win, it was an argument, which I suppose was the reason neither Fred or George ever got into one with me. They were always deliberately diplomatic when I tried to start a fight.
An example follows:
"Oh, yes, lovely shade," the Weasley was being passive-aggressive, daring glint in his eyes, devilish smirk on his lips.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" I seethed, teeth clenched, fingers biting into my palms.
In the background, I could hear some of the brand new Gryffindors whispering: "Who is she?" and "Is she a Gryffindor?" Oliver Wood was snickering, and explaining that I was Sadie Karroway-yes-this-happens-a-lot, adding in the fact that I was a Ravenclaw and they should never give me the password for their common room, no matter how frightening I was being.
That only added fuel to my fire.
"Brings out the moss in your eyes?" The twin -I wasn't sure which one of them it was, but based on the smug look on his face, this was Fred- shrugged, eyebrows raised, innocent expression on.
"Did you just compare one of my facial features to a flowerless plant that grows in damp areas?" I growled. How dare he! My eyes were hazel! Not mossy green and not muddy brown, his usual describer.
"Well, when you put it that way..." He shrugged again.
I swear I was breathing fire at that point. The red head seemed uncaring to my imminent explosion. "'When you put it that way' what?" My lip curled, water dripping on the floor around my feet, audience captivated by the proceedings.
His mouth formed the word deliberately, as though he was tasting something delicious for the first time -victory, I thought- and he wanted to savour it. "Yes."
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Opened it again and was still incapable of speech. I must have looked like a gaping fish, because the Gryffindors were giggling quietly and the twin was fighting a chuckle. "You!" I finally got my throat unclogged, wrenching him to his feet by his tie.
He was heavier than I'd expected, but in order to keep from being choked, the twin came to his feet easily. When he was up, we were nose to nose, breathing the same air. "Which one are you?" I was still holding his tie, fingers fisted into the material, crumpling it.
"Fred," he confirmed my suspicions. Then, leaning in close to my ear, lips brushing against it ever so slightly in a way that made me want to shower or refrain from showering for a week (I really couldn't decide) he whispered: "You do realise how this looks, right, Karroway?"
In response, Lee Jordan cat-called and got everyone wolf-whistling.
As though I'd been electrocuted, I jumped back from him. Fred's eyebrows were raised again, an amused smile covering his face. I wanted to slap it off. "Come with me," I snarled, cheeks red as I dragged him by the front of the shirt out the door.
When we were in the blissfully quiet Grand Staircase, he asked: "Yes, Karroway? Something you want to say?"
I ignored him momentarily, trying to regain my cool as I jerked him to a unused classroom on the fifth floor. I drew his wand out of the waistband of his trousers, flicking it at the door in a nonverbal silencing spell and an obvious locking charm. The Weasley's eyes had widened a fraction and he was looking at me differently. What the bloody hell was he thinking? That we were going to snog or something?
The thought made me laugh sinisterly internally. Maybe he was like the little boy who pulled the girl he liked's hair, except grown up physically. Definitely not mentally.
I waved his wand at the candles lining the room to give us more light than a Lumos would provide and then dried my hair. The problem with reckless confrontation is that you sometimes wind up underdressed, sopping wet, and freezing. It was winter, after all, and I would be lucky if I didn't catch a cold.
"Well, this seems horribly contrived," Fred commented, blue eyes taking in the atmosphere. "Something you want to tell me, Karroway?"
"What I wanted to say," I hissed, drawing my dressing gown around me tighter to insulate myself from the cold, "is that I am sick and tired of your games, Weasley. I don't know why you're always pranking me-"
"You ask for it," Fred interjected immediately.
"And how is that?" I sneered.
"You're a complete and utter bitch," he said tightly. "Not to mention a slag-"
"I dare you to finish that sentence!" I jabbed a finger into his chest. Okay, if I wasn't breathing fire before, I definitely was now. But there was an undercurrent to this- our first argument. It was bittersweet, like I knew the victory would be. Get ready to lose, Weasley.
"-always dating a different bloke-"
I slapped him across the face, his surprise mixing with my anger and forming a tangible thickness in the air. Or maybe it was something else. "At least I don't live in a hovel," I spat into the ringing silence, jabbing him again.
Fred stared a me for a second, both of our chests heaving, breathing each other's air. My finger was still on his chest, though it had slid so that the whole of my palm rested over his heart. A frantic rhythm was beating out beneath my hand, like someone playing the drums molto prestissimo. I could hear the same tempo being pounded out in my ears and the world was spinning, only to be vividly brought back into control when he smashed his lips against mine.
The kiss was as frenetic as the race our hearts were having, and we pulled away abruptly at the same time. I took the second to recollect my thoughts, realising with a start that I had just kissed Fred Weasley, the boy who had dyed my hair green, turned my quills into owls and my shoes into mice. Regaining my senses, I slapped him a second time.
Fred turned his head -thrown to the right from my second blow- back to me. With stinging satisfaction, I noted the handprint on his cheek. Then, without another word, I yanked him down by his tie to kiss me again.
There was no victor; it was a tie. But we got the spoils regardless.
Isn't anger beautiful?