A little angsty Oliver x Angie x Fred drabble. Don't own HP.
. x . Fall Away . x .
Fred and George Weasley are terribly different. Fred is a whole three and a half centimeters taller than George with darker eyes, although George's freckles are more pronounced than his twin's. Fred starts sentences while George finishes them; George brainstorms the ideas and Fred devises the plans.
These are the things that Angelina Johnson takes notes on in History of Magic as Professor Binns' monotone slinks through the class like Devil's Snare, smothering the students. To her right, Alicia is snoring softly and Katie is yawning on her left, although they aren't the ones she focuses on. The person she's most focused on sits directly in front of her, laughing with his twin and completely oblivious to her wistful stares. In short, she's in love with Fred Weasley and she hates it. She hates the way she can't breathe when she sees him and she hates the fact that she's the only girl in her year and perhaps all of Hogwarts who can tell them apart besides Ginny. It's all faintly painful, really, with the heartbreak and the wanting and the yearning and the pathetic Jane Austen feel of it all. Although she doesn't even garner the comparison to a Jane Austen heroine, because at least those women had spines. She lets him tread across her rules and her heart and winces silently at the feel of his trainers on her dignity, not that he means to do it. Of course, it's the way that he doesn't love her back that hurts her worst of all.
It's the way his careless eyes pass over her that drives her into Oliver's arms at night, that pushes her lips against his in the locker room as they pretend their romantic façade has any sort of chance at survival past those scarlet-emblazoned doors. Oliver's lips are a distraction from the pain and the neglect, and a lovely distraction, if not wholly satisfying. The feel of his hands on her skin is pleasurable but dirty, as if his fingertips left a trace of grime wherever they passed, and he pretends he doesn't notice the faint hint of Fred's name escaping from her mouth as he moves against her, desperate to erase the thought of his competition from her mind.
Sometimes, when the days have been especially long and hard, she cries when he kisses her and she pretends that she's running her hands through flaming tresses instead of chestnut locks and Oliver pretends her cheeks are dry and her mouth is smiling. Those are the days that she tells herself she's done away with Fred for good, that she'll never moan his name aloud and it'll be Oliver she dreams about when she's not having nightmares. But even on the bad days, she hopes that isn't true. She hopes that one day she has a reason – a glance, a smile, a friendly greeting or fond farewell – to break away from the masquerade, to let the painful twisting lies fall away and run away with the boy who stole her heart.
