A/N: Once again: you are all lovely. bellatrixD is extra lovely and included this fic and my George/OC fic (A Fair Amount of Courage) as a recommended read in her newest chapter of Begin Again, which is probably one of my current favorite fics (also Mending Broken Souls). If you're looking for well-written and well-crafted Weasley twins stories, I highly recommend her work.

Not sure how I feel about this chapter. I think it did what I wanted it to? It was a bit tricky to write, though, so I'm not sure if I succeeded. Tell me your thoughts!

Chapter 4: Hogsmeade

Bea's dad sometimes jokes that it is no accident that her name is only one letter away from a very angry insect. This annoys Bea, which only serves to prove her dad's point, annoying her even further and entertaining the rest of us. Bea can be incredibly funny when she is angry. She looks deceptively sweet—she's barely over five feet tall and she has the sort of heart-shaped face that always seems to be on the verge of a smile. She does not look like the sort of person who would approach an argument with the single-minded persistence of a Welsh terrier. Even though we've been best friends since we were eleven, it's surprising how easily I forget this.

She was already staring at me when I walked into the common room that evening, as she had situated herself in one of the armchairs by the fire that allowed her an uninterrupted view of the portrait hole. There would be no sneaking upstairs to the dormitory, not if I didn't want to make things worse. I rehearsed my argument as I made my way toward her: I didn't mean to lie, it just happened, I'm not good at talking about these things…

"How long have you been staring like that?" I asked as I sat down in the chair opposite her.

"Charlotte Victoria Lewis do not try to change the subject."

"I can't very well change the subject if we haven't even started the conversation yet," I protested.

"Don't try to argue semantics with me either," she said, eyes glinting dangerously. "You know exactly why we are here and you have some serious explaining to do."

"Look, I know you aren't happy with me—"

Bea snorted.

"—and I understand why. I know I lied to you and I'm sorry. I didn't mean for things to turn out like this. Really."

Was that another lie? I wasn't sure.

"I didn't like keeping this a secret. This whole thing just sort of…happened and I didn't really know what to make of it, so I didn't talk about it."

"That is why I'm here, you idiot!" exclaimed Bea, throwing her arms up in a plea to the heavens. I was encouraged by the fact that she called me an idiot—Bea didn't like idiocy, but she tended to see it as a temporary and sometimes excusable condition. She was much less forgiving about traits she perceived to be inherent. "Bloody hell, Charlotte, if you'd just told me, I would've helped you work it out."

"I know, I know—"

"Then why didn't you—?"

"Because it's not that simple, Bea."

"Of course it's simple—"

"Maybe for you it is, but—" I was starting to feel flustered as we edged closer to the truth. "I mean—how often have you heard me talk about a boy? Not bloody often."

"Not for lack of trying," she retorted. "I've said it before and I'll say it again: you do not devote nearly enough time to being young and stupid."

This was an ongoing battle between the two of us. Bea felt that I needed to devote more time to having fun, which she defined as having an occasional fling or even an exclusive relationship. Since I was already harboring a secret crush that I had no intention of revealing, I took the position that I could be young and stupid over the summer holidays, but I was much too busy during the school year. Bea felt that I was missing the point. She may have been right.

Of course, I couldn't tell her half of this. I took a deep breath.

"Look—it's just…I've…I've always felt really…weird and vulnerable about that sort of thing."

"I've got that, but why?"

We were at the truth—or, at least a part of the truth.

"I don't want to be like my sisters," I said after a moment. "They are lovely, wonderful girls but the moment that a boy gets involved, they turn into idiots. I never wanted to be like that so I just…I just avoided that possibility entirely."

I was surprised to find a lump in my throat—had it really bothered me to keep this from Bea?

Bea sighed, but not unkindly. "Merlin's tit, Charlotte. You are without a doubt the smartest witch I know, but sometimes you are remarkably thick."

Now it was my turn to be angry. "I'm baring my bloody soul here, Bea—"

"No, I didn't mean—" She paused for a moment, seeming to struggle with her words. "You're not just smart, Charlotte: you're sensible and you have good judgment. Those are not qualities that go away because you have a boyfriend, not if they're genuine. You have nothing to worry about."

My heart suddenly felt much lighter than it had since this whole thing had started. "Thanks, Bea," I said quietly.

"You're quite welcome, but next time just talk to me, please?"

"I will. I really am sorry."

"I know." There was a hint of a smile—a real one—around the corners of her mouth. "And now that you have bared your soul and various neuroses, I understand your reluctance to share recent developments in your romantic life. I accept the apology sonnet that you are no doubt going to compose for me by the end of this conversation."

"I am sorry, but I am not writing a sonnet."

"That is non-negotiable per section 7, clause 3, paragraph 8 of our Friendship Contract," said Bea, her tone matter-of-fact. "And now that we have cleared up the matter of your recent secrecy, that brings me to my second grievance: your romantic activities as of late."

"What's wrong with my romantic activities as of late?"

"Namely that I know nothing about them."

"Is there something specific that you wanted to know?"

"Oh, just a few details," said Bea airily. "Including, but not limited to: how did this happen, when did this happen, the quality of kissing and other activities, the extent of other activities, how long have you fancied him, and when is the wedding?"

"I don't know it just sort of…happened," I offered, lamely. I had not given much thought to this part of our conversation.

"Not a satisfactory answer. Try again."

"There's not really a lot to tell. We had a couple dances at the Yule Ball, he started chucking oranges at me, then we were partnered in class, he asked for help with an assignment…"

"And…?"

"…and he showed up during my rounds in that corridor and we started talking and then he kissed me and it was rather nice."

"And…?"

"And what?"

Bea heaved a beleaguered sigh. "Honestly, Charlotte. For someone so detail-oriented, you are being remarkably vague."

"Well, I don't really know what else there is to tell!"

"Let's start with how long this been going on."

"Since Saturday."

"Every day since Saturday?"

I felt a blush creeping up my neck. "Maybe."

Bea looked impressed. "Snogging! Six days in a row! It's like I don't even know you. So, how is it?"

"What?"

"The kissing, of course."

"I said it was rather nice, didn't I?"

"That is hardly descriptive."

My cheeks were flaming. "He's…he's quite good."

"Is it just kissing or—"

"Merlin's pants, Bea, it's hasn't even been a week, we're not even…I don't know what we are, but we're not anything yet."

"Yes, that brings me to another point," said Bea, suddenly becoming very serious. "He's got to take you on a proper date."

"I think that you were pretty clear about that in the corridor."

"I'm serious! No mucking about, that's not fair to either of you."

"What happened to being young and stupid and all your talk of flings?"

"That's different," she said. "A fling is like my Beauxbatons friend—"

"What is his name, anyway? You've never said."

She rolled her eyes. "Devereux."

"His first name?"

"Now you know why I call him my Beauxbatons friend." She sighed and shook her head. "He won't even answer to 'Dev' like a sensible person. He thinks it's common. He insists on calling me 'Beatrice' for the same reason."

"…And you like this person?"

"See, that's the point: at the end of the year, I will probably never see him again. And that's fine because other than an interest in snogging, we have very little in common. Devereux is the very definition of a fling—fun, but not for real."

"And Fred…?"

"Well, obviously, you're going to see Fred after the end of this year, so there's that. But Fred isn't a fling. He looks like a fling on the surface because he can't take anything seriously half the time, but when it comes down to it, he's not a fling. Neither is George, I suppose." She paused and smiled a little. "I think Fred could be something special if you let him. I would have never have thought to put the two of you together, but it does make a certain amount of sense."

I shifted in my seat, trying to hide my discomfort. The point of this entire exercise was not to lead Bea to conclude that Fred and I were meant to be together: the point was to ensure that we both ended up with other people.

"I don't know if we're going to have a date," I said as casually as possible. "I mean…we haven't really talked about it…"

"Yes, well, it sounds like you haven't done much talking at all…" She dodged as I aimed a kick at her shins. "I wouldn't write it off—Hogsmeade is Saturday. The timing is practically perfect."

Practically perfect. Oh Bea, if you only knew.

"And besides," she said, trying to suppress a smile, "I seem to recall that Hogsmeade is a stop on the Lewis Express…"

"Bea, if you say one more thing about trains, I swear I will tell Peeves about that empty classroom you and Devereux have been using to snog."

"But I was right!" she cackled. "You rejected my power of prose only to be bowled over by a train of truth!"

I let her have her moment, albeit grudgingly. After all, she was only half right about Fred and me.

"And speak of the devil," she said, nodding toward the portrait hole, where Fred and George were both clambering into the common room.

"Oi, Lewis!" called Fred, as soon has he caught sight of me.

"What is it, Weasley?"

"Are you going to Hogsmeade on Saturday?"

"Yes…"

"Want to go with me?"

"Like a proper date?" interjected Bea.

Fred feigned offense as he and George flopped down in two empty armchairs. "Of course it's a proper date, I'm a gentleman, aren't I?"

"That is debatable," said Bea, "but she accepts your offer."

"What are you, my social secretary?" I asked.

"Yes," said Bea. "I'm also your wardrobe consultant and you're going to let me do your makeup. Because you owe me."

I wasn't about to argue that in front of Fred and George. Bea had me and she knew it.

"Fred, will you let me do your makeup?" asked George, batting his eyes.

"Sorry, mate, Lee asked first," said Fred. "Next time."

"'Next time?'" said Bea. "Awfully confident, aren't you?"

"Oh, I have a hunch," said Fred, looking meaningfully at me and I allowed myself a small, shy smile in return. Bea and George waggled their eyebrows at each other as though they knew something that we didn't, completely unaware that we were already in on the joke.

Saturday morning dawned clear and cold. I know this because Bea flung open my bed hangings not very long after the sun had begun to peek over the horizon.

"'s matter?" I yawned, shielding my eyes.

"Up! Into the shower!" she said cheerily. Her unbrushed hair coupled with the manic glint in her eyes made her appear slightly unhinged.

"Too early," I mumbled.

"I know you, Charlotte Lewis," she said, yanking the covers off of my bed. "You are going to spend at least fifteen minutes sitting motionless on your bed trying to wake up, twenty minutes fiddling around in the lavatory, at least an hour in the shower, another twenty minutes fiddling around after your shower, then you'll want breakfast and you'll probably insist on reading the bloody paper—I'll barely have enough time to get you presentable."

"I'm beginning to regret agreeing to this," I grumbled as I sat up.

"Too late!" said Bea, beaming. "Now, start sitting motionless on your bed, we've got a schedule to keep."

Bea's knowledge of my morning routine was disconcerting, but accurate almost to the minute. When I finally emerged from my shower, it was nearing half past nine. I returned to the dormitory to find that had Bea dressed, showered, and emptied what looked like the entire contents of my wardrobe onto my bed.

"What have you—"

"Good, you're done." She dropped the sweater that she'd been inspecting. "Come on, we've got twenty minutes for breakfast."

"I hope you're planning on putting all of this right—"

"Twenty minutes!" she repeated, grabbing me by the wrist and setting a brisk pace down the stairs. "We're on a schedule."

I scarcely had time to choke down some orange juice and porridge before Bea was chivvying me back up the stairs and into the dormitory.

"You didn't let me read the paper," I protested, sitting down on Bea's bed, as there was no space on mine. Bea was digging through a pile of my sweaters and waved me off distractedly.

She eventually decided on soft grey sweater dress that fell just above my knees and black leggings. After scolding me for failing to own a proper pair of dressy boots, she put an Engorgement Charm on a pair of her own, with explicit instructions to take them off before the charm started wearing off, lest they stretch permanently. She finished off the look with one of her wide belts, cinching it tight at the waist.

"I'm not sure the belt is necessary," I said, assessing my reflection.

"No, it's perfect," said Bea. "It ties the whole outfit together and it gives you a figure like an hourglass. Now sit down, I've barely got time to get your hair and makeup sorted."

Bea refused to let me look in a mirror during this next part—"it's better if you see the finished product"—so I spent the next twenty minutes or so staring blankly into space while Bea muttered to herself and fussed with hairpins and innumerable pots and tubes of every beauty product imaginable, occasionally instructing me to look up, look down, close my eyes, or stop fidgeting.

"Right," she said finally, capping a tube of lipstick. She looked appraisingly at me and smiled. "I think that does it. You can have a look now."

"You realize that I've put an enormous amount of trust—?"

"Oh go on and look in the mirror," said Bea, rolling her eyes.

I stood and turned to face the full-length mirror. Bea had done a nice job—she'd pulled my hair back into a loose chignon at the nape of my neck, letting a few artful tendrils escape here and there. The makeup that she'd chosen was soft and natural, emphasizing my eyes and lending my lips and cheeks a rosy sort of glow. I looked like…well, I looked like a girl who was about to go on a proper date.

But it's a fake date, said a small, nasty voice inside of me. I hastily banished that thought. Now was not the time for that sort of reflection, not with Bea looking at me expectantly and the clock ticking away the minutes until I was due to meet Fred.

"Trust well placed," I said with a smile. "Thanks, Bea."

"You're quite welcome." She looked at her watch. "Ooh, we should get going."

We bundled up in our coats and scarves and hurried down to the courtyard. Fred spotted me first.

"There she is, the lady of the hour," he greeted, accompanied by George who was grinning mischievously. "How are you, my dove?"

"Keep calling me 'my dove' and this date will be over quite quickly," I said archly.

"Ooh, she's being shirty," said Bea in the sort of indulgent tone that a parent might use to describe a precocious toddler. "That means she fancies you."

"I like my women feisty," said Fred, eyes twinkling as he grabbed hold of my hand and began pulling me toward the queue of students waiting for Filch to check their names against the list of students with Hogsmeade privileges. "Come on, now, George'll look after Bea."

"I'll keep her out of trouble," said George solemnly. "Same as I do during class."

Bea snorted. "Right."

"Look, Bea, I didn't want to tell you this, but that whole spectacle was a setup," said Fred.

"The two of you had become far too disruptive during class," added George.

"The laughing…"

"Mucking about…"

"Not paying attention…"

"And that terrible scene with the Dungbombs…"

"It had to be stopped," sighed Fred.

"We just didn't want to hurt your feelings," said George, patting Bea on the shoulder consolingly.

"I'm touched, truly," deadpanned Bea.

"See? She's in excellent hands," said Fred.

"Nothing to worry about," said George cheerily. Bea said something that I didn't quite catch as Fred led me away, although the arch of her eyebrow told me that it was likely sarcastic.

The line moved slowly. Filch barely gave me a second glance, but his eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Fred and he seemed to take extra care looking through his list, peering beadily at Fred as though he believed he could detect rule breaking through the mere power of squinting.

"I've got my eye on you," he said finally, jabbing a finger at Fred. "One toe out of line and there will be consequences, mark my words…"

"Cheers," said Fred brightly, as though Filch had merely commented on the weather or the dinner menu for that evening.

"I half expected you to smart off," I said quietly once we were out of earshot and walking up to the village.

Fred chuckled. "No, learned that lesson the hard way on the first Hogsmeade visit. He held us back for nearly two hours while he tried to talk McGonagall into revoking our Hogsmeade privileges."

"For smarting off?"

He shrugged. "Something about how that represented a clear intent to cause disruption. He wasn't far off—we did spend about half of our savings at Zonko's when we finally got up to the village."

I realized that we were still holding hands. Flushing, I made an attempt to drop Fred's hand. He squeezed my hand more tightly.

"We're on a date, Lewis," he said quietly, leaning toward me a little.

"Oh, right. Sorry, forgot."

"Forgot?" he said, chuckling. "That's a new one."

"Well, I haven't been on many fake dates," I said primly. "Speaking of which, where are we going?"

"Madam Puddifoot's, of course."

"Madam Puddifoot's?"

"You look like I've suggested tea in Azkaban," said Fred, looking genuinely entertained. "You may want to look a little more pleased—if anyone looks over right now, they're not going to think you're happy about this."

I forced a smile. "Tea in Azkaban would be an improvement. I hate Madam Puddifoot's."

"So do I, but that's not the point. If we want to get people talking, that's the best place for us to be spotted."

I held back a sigh, trying to keep my face relaxed and happy. He was, of course, right.

"Fine. But only for a half hour and then we're going to the Three Broomsticks like sensible people."

"One hour and I'll buy you a butterbeer."

It wasn't a great bargain, but I suspected I didn't have many other options.

"All right," I conceded.

It was early yet, but Madam Puddifoot's was already half full of couples and just as revolting as I remembered it. We grabbed a table by the window, not very far from Rochelle DiLaurentis and Oliver Esposito. There was no sign of Aidan or Angelina. I couldn't decide if I was relieved or disappointed. We ordered our coffees and shrugged off our coats.

"All right," I said with a sigh. "Note the time on your watch. One hour."

"It's not all that bad," said Fred, looking around at the frilly décor. "It's quite cozy."

"You're baiting me."

Fred grinned. "'Course I am."

Madam Puddifoot returned with our coffees and I quickly busied myself with the milk and sugar.

"You look quite nice," said Fred. I looked up, startled, feeling a blush start to creep up my neck.

"Oh, thanks," I said, accidentally knocking the lid off the sugar bowl. "It was all Bea."

"Ah, yes, the social secretary."

"Wardrobe and makeup consultant as well." I stirred my coffee. "She's very much in favor of this…" I gestured vaguely at the two of us. "Thinks it'll be good for me."

Fred raised his eyebrows. "I think that's the first time anyone's ever suggested I'm a positive influence. It feels very strange."

"How the mighty have fallen," I said. "She thinks I don't have enough fun."

Fred seemed to consider this for a moment, but before he could offer any sort of observation, the bells on the door tinkled and George burst into the teashop out of breath. Bea trailed behind him.

"Hi," he said coming up to our table. He flashed me a charming smile. "Sorry to interrupt, but I need to borrow Fred for just a moment."

"What for?" said Fred and I at the same time.

"He's here." George looked significantly at Fred. "Three Broomsticks."

Fred's expression suddenly became serious. "Well, we've got to—"

"I know that's why—"

"Since he hasn't—"

"None of the owls—"

Fred was fumbling for his coat and scarf now. "Sorry, Charlotte. I've got to—"

"See a man about a dragon," supplied George. "Bea will keep you company."

Bea, who had been looking rather lost during this entire exchange, started at the sound of her name. "I will?"

"Right you are," said George, steering her into the chair that Fred had just vacated. "You can talk about…whatever it is that girls talk about."

"Makeup and goblin politics," suggested Fred.

"Sounds about right."

Fred leaned in quite suddenly and pecked me briefly on the lips. "I'm really sorry—I'll be back soon."

He and George dashed out the door of the shop, the bells tinkling merrily as the door slammed shut behind them.

"What just happened?" I asked.

Bea shrugged. "We went into the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer. Next thing I know, George is dragging me up the street muttering about needing to find Fred."

"Any idea who they need to talk to so desperately?"

Bea helped herself to a sip of Fred's coffee, made a face, and reached for the sugar bowl. "No idea. There were loads of people in there—some goblins as well." She dumped several heaping spoonfuls of sugar into Fred's coffee.

"I think he takes his coffee black," I said.

"Shouldn't have left then," said Bea, stirring the coffee briskly. "So, how's your date?"

"Er, well, we walked up here, chatted some, and then he ran off," I said, shrugging. "So I'm not entirely sure…he did say I looked nice, though."

"Nice enough that he'd better have a bloody good excuse for running off on you."

"Well it seemed quite important," I said as Bea took another sip of her coffee. "What're you still doing with George?"

"Funny thing: the two of you being on a date means that George and I are on our own. So, we decided to spare each other the loneliness. We were planning your wedding before George bolted out of the Three Broomsticks."

"Wonderful," I said without any enthusiasm.

"It will be very tasteful," said Bea. "George reckons that Snape would only wear a boa and pasties for the reception, not the ceremony."

Luckily I was spared from further disturbing imagery by the arrival of Fred and George. They were both red-cheeked, out of breath, and seemed rather put out.

"—something about it…" George was saying in a low voice as he and Fred approached our table.

"Right then," said Bea, rising from her seat. "Well, George and I will be off. We've got a ceremony to plan."

"Yes, I had a thought about that," said George to Bea, his dour manner seeming to lift slightly. "How do you feel about a chorus of house-elves?"

"Ooh! We could have them carry candles!"

George winked at me as he and Bea departed, deep in conversation about whether there was a way to get a chorus of house-elves into some white ceremonial robes without accidentally setting them free or offending them with clothes.

"What's this about singing house-elves?" asked Fred as he resituated himself in his seat, shrugging off his coat and scarf.

"They're planning our wedding."

"Ah, of course," said Fred, seeming unperturbed both by the fact that George and Bea were planning our wedding and that it involved singing house-elves. "Sorry to run out like that."

"What was that about?"

"Long story," he said, taking a sip of his coffee. He winced and nearly spat it out.

"I've got time."

"Well, it's—" He seemed to be searching for the right word as he set his coffee aside. "It's rather…sensitive."

"'Rather sensitive?' What happened to your talk of 'baring souls' and 'trust of our new-forged friendship?' And don't you think you owe me a proper explanation after dashing out like that?"

He grinned. "All right, Lewis. But you're not to breathe a word of this to anyone."

"Fred Weasley, I would rather die than betray a dance partner," I said, quoting his assertion of loyalty from the Yule Ball.

"Cheeky." He suddenly reached across the table and grabbed my hand. "Might as well give the impression of romance—don't roll your eyes, you're ruining the moment."

I tried my best to affix a benign, flirty sort of expression on my face as I leaned across the table to hear him better.

"George and I made a bet at the World Cup this summer," he said quietly.

"What was your wager?"

"That Ireland would win, but Krum would catch the Snitch," he said. "We bet our savings."

I frowned. "But…that means you won…"

"Yes." There was no hiding the grim set of his jaw. "But the bookmaker paid out our winnings in leprechaun gold. It disappeared a few hours later. We thought it was a mistake at first, but he's been ignoring our letters. We tried to speak with him in the Three Broomsticks, but…"

I was horrified. "Who is it?"

"Bagman."

"My sister Alice is in the Ministry," I offered lamely. "I could see if she might be able to help."

"We're handling it," said Fred curtly and I could tell that the subject was good as closed.

"Well…if you change your mind…"

He gave a small, grim half-smile and squeezed my hand lightly. The bell on the shop door tinkled and I glanced up at the door before looking quickly away.

"Don't look," I said quietly. "My friend and…his friend just walked in."

"We really need to think of proper code names…"

I tried to focus on Fred. Aidan and Genevieve made their way to a table that was—of course—just to the right of us. Aidan was gallantly pulling out a chair for Genevieve, his hand lingering on her shoulder as she smiled widely—

"Hey—Charlotte." My gaze had strayed for only half a second, but Fred had seen it. He squeezed my hand.

I took a deep breath. "Sorry. Wasn't expecting—" I trailed off. "Is it stupid of me not to expect it at this point?"

He squeezed my hand again. "Talk to me about something," he suggested.

"What?"

"Anything. Were you at the World Cup this summer?"

"Yes, it was our Lewis Sister Adventure," I said.

He looked amused. "Your what?"

"A Lewis Sister Adventure. It's a family tradition, I suppose. We go somewhere every year—just the four of us. For bonding, or what have you."

"Sounds like a laugh."

"Oh, it's usually marvelous until Ophelia picks a fight," I said. "That sets off a chain reaction: Alice storms off in a huff, Bianca yells shrilly at everyone, and I sit there quietly wondering how I came to be related to three maniacs. Two hours later, there's a teary group hug and everything is resolved until the next time."

"I'm glad I've only got the one sister," said Fred fervently.

"There are advantages and disadvantages." I could hear Genevieve giggling.

Fred squeezed my hand again. "Keep talking."

I told him about how the previous summer, our Lewis Sister Adventure had been a weekend in London, staying at a nice hotel. Alice painted my toenails with varnish that had been bewitched to change with my mood while Bianca and Ophelia chortled over a game of Gobstones. That evening, Ophelia ordered takeaway from two different Chinese restaurants because one didn't have eggrolls on the menu and the other had the audacity to put mushrooms in their lo mein. Bianca tried firewhisky for the first time, which didn't help matters when Ophelia picked her obligatory fight, which was abruptly ended when Bianca, stuffed with mushroom-free lo mein and firewhisky, vomited spectacularly into her own handbag. I'd laughed so hard that I cried, while Ophelia yelled at me for being immature and Bianca yelled at Ophelia for yelling and making her headache worse. Alice, having earlier stormed off to the adjoining bedroom in a huff, opened the door long enough to yell at Ophelia for bringing firewhisky in the first place.

I don't know why I chose this stupid, rambling, and somewhat embarrassing story, but the more I talked, the easier it was to retain my focus and tune out the low rumble of Aidan's voice and the occasional giggle from Genevieve.

"Hour's almost up," said Fred, discreetly glancing at his watch. "I reckon we should probably do a little snogging before we leave." He glanced pointedly at Nadia Minkowski and Otis Warren, who seemed to be doing their best to swallow one another whole.

"Can't we do that in the Three Broomsticks?" The perfumed air was starting to make me feel dizzy.

Fred grinned. "Brilliant idea, we'll have a go there as well." He was leaning in closer now. "If people see us here, it gives it a certain amount of legitimacy. Besides, your hour isn't up."

I sighed. "You're bloody impossible."

Fred tutted. "I'm about to kiss you, Lewis. Try to look a little more starry-eyed."

My heart thudded heavily in my chest as he closed the gap between us. Madam Puddifoot's was more public than the dark corridor…and I suppose it seemed more likely that Aidan might catch a glimpse of us in better lighting. This made me unaccountably nervous—what would he think? Would it matter at all?

Fred's hand crept to the back of my neck to draw me closer, almost as if to say Enough, Lewis. It's a fake relationship. Stop thinking so much.

I shut my eyes and tried to tune out the sounds around me, losing myself in the taste of coffee and oranges.