I have been living with the Weasley twins for about four months when it happened.
Wait. That sounds insane. Let me back up.
It was the end of the second wizarding war, and I was recently released from Azkaban.
That sounds even madder. I'll go back further.
The wizarding world was in the midst of the second war. I was working at the Ministry of Magic as an administrative assistant. I was rather disappointed about this as I was bound for an apprenticeship in the Department of Mysteries, but it had been destroyed my graduating year from Hogwarts due to Harry Potter and of course, good old Voldemort. Which was a shame—I was one of the best Ravenclaws in my year. I would have been a great asset. But I digress.
Harry Potter and his friends were Merlin knows where, and I was working at the ministry, who had an Imperiused Thicknesse as Minister of Magic, and Delores Umbridge essentially running the show. She had been giving hearings to muggle-borns, throwing most of them in Azkaban just because she could. As a muggle-born, I knew my day was going to come soon.
And it did. So I fought her. I fought her so hard; I tried to physically get my wand back from her. But unarmed, it was too easy to overtake me.
I was deemed unruly, unstable, and I was carted off to Azkaban.
I didn't even know she had my parents killed for my attempt to overthrow her until I was released—two days after Harry Potter's defeat of Voldemort. I was empty and untrusting. I still sort of am. I couldn't return to the ministry to work. I feared, and still do, the same thing happening again. I had to find a new job, and a place to live.
Fred and George Weasley were looking for a roommate, and new employees. The cost of repairs on their joke shop, and to pay those new employees, just required that they needed a roommate. And there I was, looking for exactly that.
The repairs didn't take too long, and most of the new hires either quit or were let go, as, though Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was a high-demand shop, they didn't need more than the six of us who remained.
Joking around was never my thing, but I enjoyed the work. I appreciated the craftsmanship. I needed something to do.
George is easily the nicer of the twins. He always addresses me by name and looks me in the eyes. He shook my hand when I signed the lease. Sometimes, he makes breakfast and I'm always surprised at how good his cooking is. He asks me how I'm doing (almost too much, sometimes I worry if I look sick) and about my friends. He's always a little sad when I tell him I don't talk to any of my friends anymore. I figure we were only friends because we were in the same house. I wouldn't have been close with my Hogwarts mates unless I had no other choice. George will ask if I'm dating anyone, and I'll laugh. The last person I dated was Roger Davies, who also dated every other girl at Hogwarts at the same time. But that one big Slytherin, Montague, always used to tell me the nastiest things about my body when we passed in the hallway. George shuddered in disgust when I told him that. I never would tell him, but I think there was a part of me that liked what Montague would say.
As warm and welcoming as George is, Fred is the complete opposite. He leaves the room whenever I walk in. I don't think we've ever made eye contact. He never compliments me for a job well done like George does, but rather, he'll point out whenever I do anything wrong. Sometimes, usually when we have no choice but to be in the same room together, like during breakfasts or dinners, he will just stare at me. I can't explain it, the intensity he looks at me with. His eyes feel like they can burn my flesh. George always calls me Heather, work or at home. But Fred will always call me Miss Bell. Sometimes I wonder if he does it because he knows I think it's kind of hot.
George started dating Angelina Johnson, a Gryffindor in my Hogwarts class, about three months into my living with them. Though George was even happier than he was when I first moved in, the mood in the flat changed completely. George started spending a lot of time at Angelina's, so it's been just Fred and me. I'll admit, it's sort of uncomfortable. He and I don't really talk. If he's not ignoring me, he's just staring at me. His stares make me feel dirty and wrong.
Yesterday is when things changed. I can't get it out of my head. George was at Angelina's, as he usually was at this point, and I was enjoying a relaxing cup of tea before bed. Fred walked into the kitchen and looked at me, his eyes boring into my face.
He was in his shirtsleeves and neatly pressed slacks. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The fit of his shirt emphasized the fact that he had spent a few years playing quidditch. He still had on his suspenders and bow tie. His nice dress made him even more physically imposing than I already thought he was.
"Why didn't you make me a cup?" He asked.
"I didn't think to." I answered honestly. His gaze made me squirm in my seat. "But I made a whole pot, if you'd like some." I offered.
"Well, then, why don't you pour me a cup, Miss Bell." He said it like it wasn't a question. He wasn't imploring me to. He was telling me. He sat down across from where I was seated and I poured him a cup.
"What kind is it?" He asked when I set the cup and saucer in front of him.
"Peppermint. I thought it would be nice to have before going to sleep."
"Hmm." He stared at the tea before taking a drink. He seemed satisfied with it, because he took a second sip. I sat down again and tried to enjoy my cup. But every time I set it back on the saucer, I would look up to see him staring at me. So much for a relaxing moment before I went to sleep.
He finished his cup of tea before I finished mine, and I was relieved. He was going to leave. But he didn't. He stayed seated and continued to watch me, and asked me to pour him another half a cup to pass the time.
"What is it exactly that you want?" I asked while he was mid-sip. I couldn't bear it any longer. Fred's eyes narrowed immediately. He slammed his cup down and stood up. I was terrified. Very slowly, he walked to my side of the table and leaned down. I was too scared to turn my head to look at him. I could feel his breath, deep and warm, on my neck. He stayed there
"Miss Bell," he whispered huskily in my ear, "I simply want to fuck you." He stood up and walked out of the room. My breath was still hitched. My heart forgot to beat.