A/N: Hi! It's been a minute since my last update. My apologies! This was initially a regular ol' "life got really busy and this chapter was more complicated than I initially thought" kind of delay, but more recently, delays have been related to the fact that we're now in a global pandemic, which has made things kind of chaotic in an entirely different way. My state has had a shelter in place order for a couple weeks now and I'm working remotely, but I'm okay healthwise—it's just been a whirlwind. I hope that you and your loved ones are all safe and well.
But, thank you so much for reading and for all of your wonderful comments and feedback: it truly makes my day. And I hope that in a world where everything is suddenly unprecedented and scary, this update provides a little bit of brightness (and also that it was worth the wait). I would love to hear what you think, as I'm a bit nervous about this one.
Regarding the next update: I'm not sure when it will be posted. Ideally, I'd love to get back into more regular/predictable updates, but I'm not sure that I can commit to that right now just with the way my schedule—and let's be honest, the world—has been lately. However, I have every intention of finishing this fic—it just may be slow going for a bit. I do try to post status updates and other fic-related stuff on my Tumblr (akabluekat) from time to time, so feel free to check that out if you're wondering where I am or if I'm still writing.
Chapter 12: Champagne
Alicia had told me that I didn't have to make a toast.
"I'm having a destination wedding in a place you're fairly certain you're going to hate," she'd said. "It seems a bit unfair to throw in mandatory public speaking when you're already doing me a massive favor as it is."
I had insisted for two reasons. The first was a sense of obligation: after everything Alicia had done for me, putting together a short toast didn't seem like all that much to ask. The second reason was practical: it didn't really seem like public speaking in the traditional sense. Alicia had booked a private room at a restaurant for the reception and there were only going to be twelve of us there. Giving a toast in that setting didn't seem any different from telling a story and having the entire table listening in. There wasn't really anything to worry about. I would be fine.
In retrospect, this was one of those ideas that made a lot more sense to me when it was an abstract entry on my calendar several months away instead of a cold, hard reality that was making my palms sweat between the salad and main course. Fred and Uncle Pete had both given toasts earlier and they were lovely—the right blend of heartwarming and funny while still remaining succinct. The scribbled words on my notecard seemed inadequate in comparison.
Of course, this wasn't even getting into the fact that I was supposed to be giving this toast in front of an audience that included Fred Weasley. When I had originally agreed to do this, Fred was nothing more than a casual acquaintance; in the span of one short week, he had evolved into an unattainable and intense secret crush. Just looking at him made my breath hitch and my heart beat faster. You know. The exact physical reaction that you absolutely don't need when you're trying to speak coherently in front of a room full of people.
I looked again at the folded notecard in my hands. What had I been thinking?
"You ready, Maggie?" Alicia nudged me with her elbow and I started slightly, jostling my water glass.
"Ha. Yes. Of course. Absolutely. Never been better." I steadied my glass and raised it to my lips, like she had merely caught me reaching for my glass instead of midway through the process of quietly losing my mind.
Alicia frowned slightly and lowered her voice, placing a gentle hand on my arm. "You can bow out if you want, Mags. It's fine—no one will know."
If she hadn't said anything, I might have wavered, but the kindness in her voice and her hand on my arm solidified my resolve, little reminders of everything that she'd done for me and all the big and little ways that I loved her. If I couldn't give a stupid toast at her wedding because of something inconsequential as nerves, I would only be proving that I didn't deserve her.
"Nope, no need. It's completely fine. I am completely fine." I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "Just needed a little water, that's all."
Alicia's lips pressed into a thin line and I knew immediately that she wasn't buying what was admittedly a very unconvincing performance. I also knew that if I gave her the chance to push back, I would lose whatever argument she put forward. My stomach clenched—not with nerves, but the sort of sick feeling you get when an important opportunity begins to slip from your fingers.
So, I did what any sensible person would do: I leapt to my feet so quickly that I jostled the entire table, the ice clinking against the sides of the water glasses, lit candles trembling worryingly.
Belatedly, it occurred to me that maybe I didn't need to stand—had any of the others stood when they'd given their speeches? I couldn't remember. Fuck. Why did I think this was a good idea?
Everyone was looking at me.
Fuck.
Well. There was no going back.
I did my best to steady myself, picking up my champagne flute and notecard to stall for time, trying to keep my expression calm and neutral like I had no notion that my entire face felt as though it was on fire, like I had, in fact, intended to jostle the entire table as I stood up.
But then I did an entirely different stupid thing and allowed myself to lock eyes with Fred across the table. This, of course, invoked a different kind of nervousness, which was then vying for control with the preexisting nervousness that had been generated by the toast. It was an all-out battle, a clash of the nerves, my heart pounding and knees trembling.
And I still wasn't sure if I was supposed to be standing or not.
Fuck.
Okay. Stop looking at Fred. Deep breath. This was fine. I was fine. I could do this. I had lived through worse. It was just a toast. It would be okay. Breathe.
I forced a smile. "Erm. Hi." I gave an awkward sort of wave with my notecard. "I was just—erm—I was going to say a few words. If you don't mind."
It wasn't exactly the stellar opening that I had hoped for, but the majority of what I'd just said consisted of recognizable words, which, given my current state of mind, felt like a victory. The rest of my speech was written on my notecard, so I didn't need to think all that much. I just needed to breathe and read. I could manage that, surely.
Probably.
Fuck. Stop that, Maggie.
I cleared my throat.
"Cousin has always felt like a fundamentally inadequate word to describe what Alicia is to me," I began. I was surprised by how even my voice sounded, though there was a slight nervous tremor in the hand that held the notecard. "This has been especially true in the last several years. You all know what happened with my brother—many of you were there—and you probably know that I wouldn't be here today were it not for Alicia."
I paused for a moment. I had worried about this next part of the speech—namely, that my mind would do what it often did and follow the will-o'-the-wisp of suggestion back to the darkest parts of the swamp—the sort of darkness with long, grasping fingers that pulled you into sinkholes, slipped quicksand underneath your feet, and spun you around until you lost all sense of how to get back out. It was darkness filled with the coppery smell of blood and the feeling of warmth slowly leaching from my limbs, Evan lying lifeless beside me, the sound of my own screams mixing with the war that raged on all around me.
For a moment, I thought it might happen: my hands began to shake, my vision began to tunnel, the sound of my own heartbeat grew increasingly louder in my ears. I tried to take a deep breath, but my lungs were already starting to constrict.
And then, for whatever reason, I looked up and my eyes met Fred's. He gave every appearance of listening thoughtfully, but his gaze was sharp and careful, like he knew exactly the sort of trick my brain was trying to play. His head tilted slightly—an almost imperceptible nod—and his eyes sparkled with a particular kind of warmth that seemed to shine a light on the shadows creeping at the very edges of my thoughts.
There was an unexpected lightness in my chest. I took a deep breath and this time it seemed to work—my heartbeat slowed and my hands steadied. It was okay. I was okay.
I tore my gaze away from his whiskey eyes and brought it back to my notecard.
"When you think of bravery in the traditional sense, you think of what Alicia did for me during the Battle of Hogwarts: blocking curses, dragging me to safety, stanching the blood with her cardigan, refusing to let either one of us give up."
I paused for just a second, taking another deep breath. This was the hardest part, the part that always choked my voice with emotion when I'd practiced it alone.
It's just words on a notecard. This is okay. I am okay.
"But when you think of bravery, you should also think of Alicia in the months afterward: sleeping on a cot in my room for six months to wake me from nightmares, dragging me out of my flat when all I wanted to do was crawl under the covers and weep for what I'd lost."
There was a noticeable quaver in my voice and a lump in my throat, but I pressed on because I knew that if I slowed at all, I would start to cry. "You should think of her showing up every single day not knowing if I was going to be the person I was before, unafraid of who I'd become. You should think of her persisting through her own grief and exhaustion, even when I was selfish and broken and said things I didn't mean."
My breath stuttered in my throat, catching on the sharp edges of a sob that I was barely holding back. I kept my eyes on my notecard because if I looked away, I would lose it completely and I couldn't fail at this.
One more deep breath. I imagined the oxygen flowing into my lungs and soothing that swell of emotion like a cool hand on a fevered brow.
I am okay. I can do this.
"To me, that is who Alicia has always been: the bravest girl I know. She fights bravely and she loves bravely."
My voice caught on that last sentence, but I had got through the hardest part of it. I wasn't exactly calm, but I felt a little more at ease: the lump in my throat was receding, my hands were gradually growing steadier. I paused for a moment, taking a few more deep breaths.
"As you can imagine," I continued, "I had some strong opinions about who was good enough to marry Alicia."
I hadn't expected anyone to laugh at that line, but there was a bit of a collective chuckle that caught me off guard and sent a wobbly and surprised sort of laugh tumbling from my own lips, along with a heady rush of adrenaline.
"Mostly, I thought that the sort of person who was good enough for Alicia would be someone who cherished her to the degree that she deserved and was at least as good, kind, and clever as she is. So that's why I'm especially glad that she found Lee because Lee is all of those things and more."
I cleared my throat. "Lee is an extraordinarily good listener, wickedly funny, and surprisingly sweet. He is the sort of person who learns how to bake and ballroom dance as a surprise, who brings flowers just because, and has a knack for turning up with a cup of tea when you need it most. I have never seen Alicia happier than when she is with Lee."
One more deep breath, two more sentences and I would be done. "The best love stories are about two extraordinary people finding each other and finding a love that they deserve—and that's what this wedding is celebrating." I lifted my champagne glass into the air, hoping that my arm wasn't trembling too noticeably. "So, here is my toast: congratulations to Alicia and Lee, two of the most extraordinary, kind, and good people I know."
I only dared to look up after I read that last sentence and I was immediately glad that I had waited: Alicia was rising out of her chair, tears streaming down her cheeks, which immediately undid all of the work I'd done to try and contain myself. The tears I'd been holding back spilled forth as Alicia folded me into a tight hug.
"You've got to stop making me cry, you dunce," she said into my ear.
"Love you, too, Mrs. Dingus," I said, hugging her back tightly. A moment later, Lee was insinuating himself into our embrace, loudly insisting that he wasn't crying, there was just a bit of sand in his eyes.
I caught Fred's eye when I sat back down. His eyes were still bright with that particular warmth that I'd noticed earlier, which made my stomach twist in all kinds of absurd directions and conjured what felt like a full kaleidoscope of butterflies in the entirety of my torso.
"That was lovely, Maggie."
My cheeks were burning. "Thanks."
I could practically feel Alicia noticing and assessing this exchange, searching for clues and signs that weren't there. I allowed myself to return his small, soft smile before tearing my eyes away, my heart pounding hard.
The restaurant had an open-air terrace with a live band and as the sun began to set, the waitstaff cleared the dance floor so that Alicia and Lee could have their first dance as a married couple. None of the other diners seemed to mind—they gathered at the edge of the terrace, beaming at Alicia and Lee as they swayed together. It was rather sweet, this odd gathering of family, friends, and strangers.
It began to occur to me, though, that there was a small complication that I hadn't considered: there was going to be dancing at this event. The restaurant wasn't like the clubs where you could just gather on the dance floor in a group and sort of do your own thing—this was the sort of place with proper dancing, the sort of dancing that required a partner.
And since Fred and I were the only two unmarried people in attendance, it was a little more than likely that we'd end up dancing together at some point. Admittedly, the prospect of this was nice; realistically, though, it was likely another opportunity for me to make an ass of myself.
Fuck.
My instinct was to try and avoid it—that seemed like a simple enough solution to the problem. There were a few little café tables set up outside—surely, no one would notice if I casually made my way over there once Alicia and Lee's dance was done.
For a moment, I thought this might work, especially when I happened to overhear Angelina complaining about her back hurting as Alicia and Lee's first dance was drawing to a close.
"I was going to go commandeer one of those little tables," I said casually. "If you wanted to go sit, I mean."
"Probably not a bad idea," she said, bracing a hand against the small of her back and wincing.
I made a mistake then: I glanced over at Fred, partly out of habit, partly out of nerves. And Angelina noticed, her gaze sharpening with a keen-eyed clarity that immediately made me nervous.
"You should go dance, though," she said, confirming my worst fears.
My laugh sounded nervous and fake. "No, no I'm fine."
"I'm living vicariously through you, remember? First coffee, now dancing." Her gaze landed on Fred. "Fred, I'm going to need your assistance in this matter."
Had Alicia attempted to make the same suggestion, she would have found some way to give the game away—probably through inappropriate giggling. It would have been mortifying. But Angelina's immaculate poker face was worse in a way that I had not anticipated. She was so coolly calm and reasonable, and she spoke with such confident conviction that it was difficult to protest without being completely conspicuous.
Judging by the subtle glint in her eyes, she was well aware of all of this and quite willing to exploit it. From a distance, I could appreciate that it was rather brilliant in an evil genius sort of way.
Snared in that tidy trap, I felt less than charitable, though.
"What's that, now?" Fred asked Angelina.
"My back's killing me, so I'm going to vicariously live out my dancing dreams through Maggie and I can't very well send her out there without a partner," said Angelina, as though this was a reasonable and normal request.
"You don't have to listen to her," I said to Fred, my cheeks warming.
Angelina snorted. "Yes, he does. As his sister-in-law, I'm entitled to boss him around."
"It was in their wedding vows," quipped Fred. His eyes sparkled with mischief and he leaned in conspiratorially. "Besides, you can't disappoint a pregnant woman, Maggie."
"It's bad for the baby," said Angelina solemnly, resting a hand on her belly.
I opened my mouth to offer another protest, but now I was immediately confronted with a new problem: Fred, hand outstretched, whiskey eyes so warm that I felt it all the way down to my toes.
"Come on, Maggie, you heard the woman," he said with a grin.
A nervous laugh tumbled from my lips, the kind of laugh that immediately made me want to crawl out of my own skin because it sounded so shrill and fake. "Ha. Well…"
It would be silly of me to take his hand. I would be further deluding myself, likely signing up for some level of disappointment later. There was no way this would turn out well for me. I knew all of this.
But the thing is…it's hard to listen to reason when a handsome man is offering you his hand just as the stars are beginning to wink their way into the night sky.
So I gave an exaggerated sigh to hide all of my nerves and tried not to notice how nicely my hand fit in his or read into that crooked grin. I turned to Angelina whose smile was positively catlike in her victory.
"You're a menace, Angelina," I said in parting as Fred led me to the dance floor.
She pumped a fist in the air. "No regrets!"
I scowled at her before turning away, briefly catching a glimpse of an entirely too mischievous look that Alicia was giving me over Lee's shoulder. I would ignore Alicia and the fact that I was evidently surrounded by traitors; instead, I would devote all of my energy to not making an ass of myself. This would be sensible use of my time and resources.
"You really didn't have to listen to her," I said to Fred, trying to sound like I wasn't invested in any of this, like I was cool enough to not think overly much about any handsome man who wanted to dance with me, least of all him.
"You might be underestimating her," he said with a bit of a laugh. "And besides, I don't mind."
My immediate instinct was to tell myself not to read into that, to keep my head firmly on my shoulders and my thoughts rooted in reality, but that process was almost immediately derailed by Fred. He stood in front of me, solid and utterly unmissable, occupying what felt like every corner of my awareness. His right hand slid to the back of my waist, nudging me closer to him, while his left hand clasped my right hand. I found myself gripping his shoulder almost instinctively, like it might have a steadying effect—instead, it simply led my brain down the merry path of noticing the broadness of his shoulders and reminiscing about what said shoulders looked like without a shirt. Every attempt at a deep and calming breath simply led to me being overwhelmed by the faint smell of cinnamon and something woodsy.
Oh, for fuck's sake, Maggie. Get it together.
"I meant to ask earlier," he said, his voice low and pleasant and filled with a warmth that somehow raised goosebumps on my arms, "are you feeling better?"
It took me a moment to realize that he was talking about the fireworks show from the previous night, which felt like an entire lifetime ago. My cheeks burned with residual embarrassment as the scene from last night played over again in my mind—that moment when everything felt intimate and still between the two of us, then the boom of that first firework flinging me back to that day in May, dredging up memories that I wished I could forget.
And of course, the subsequent sex dream I'd had about him that very evening. My cheeks burned even more.
I cleared my throat and forced a smile. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine," I said breezily, though it only felt half true at best. "I should have expected that, honestly. It's just one of those things…" I trailed off and shrugged, feeling oddly embarrassed and vulnerable, like I'd offered up more than I really intended to say.
"You know," he said, the hint of a smile in his voice making goosebumps creep up the column of my spine, "you're not nearly as good at lying as you think you are."
This wasn't exactly the most comforting thing to hear when I was a). currently trying to conceal a secret crush and b). had spent what felt like half of the day in furtive conversations with well-intentioned, but largely delusional people who thought my secret crush had a ghost of a chance at being reciprocated.
There was also, of course, the fact that I'd had a sodding sex dream about him the previous night.
"What makes you think I'm lying?" I said, trying to keep my voice even.
"Well, I don't think you feel fine about it," he said gently. "At a minimum, I suspect you feel embarrassed and you'd probably have apologized for it had I not previously threatened to throw you into the ocean."
I laughed, largely out of relief as the pressure in my chest eased a little. He didn't know about the sex dream or anything Alicia and Angelina had said to me. Of course he didn't: I was being irrational.
"You're awfully sure of yourself," I said.
"Well, I'm awfully familiar with that kind of feeling."
There was something equal parts wonderful and disorienting about these moments with Fred. I had grown so accustomed to managing on my own that there was some part of me that believed that I was alone in how I felt, that I was uniquely broken in ways that no other human being could possibly understand. Being confronted with evidence to the contrary was strange and wonderful, almost like someone had struck a tuning fork that made my entire skeleton ring and tremble inside of me.
"You have a rather uncanny knack for saying exactly the right thing, did you know that?" I said, risking a glance up at him. Even in my heels, he was still a good deal taller than me, which did absolutely no favors for the progressive melting of my bones that was currently taking place.
He quirked an eyebrow, his mouth curling upward in a wry half smile. "Do I?"
"Yes." I gave him a very serious look. "It's extremely irritating, to be honest."
He grinned and I had to look away to keep my legs from turning into jelly. "That seems like a bit of a contradiction, doesn't it? If it's exactly the right thing to say, wouldn't it be impossible for it to be irritating?"
I sighed, a smile twitching at the corners of my mouth. "You also have a rather irritating habit of asking me questions I can't answer."
"I'm just trying to keep you on your toes—I wouldn't want to be boring."
I smirked up at him. "Joke's on you, I like boring."
His smile was slow and soft in a way that melted my insides. "Good to know."
There was something about the warmth of his expression and the timbre of his voice that scared me a little. Not in a bad way—more in a sudden-drop-on-a-rollercoaster type of way where you get that rush of adrenaline because your brain interprets it as danger, even though you know you're absolutely fine. And it wasn't that I was afraid of Fred or anything like that; it was more that…well. Things were complicated.
And this just twisted the knife of wanting him even more, almost as if the world was saying look at this kind, handsome man who understands all of your bullshit and think about all the reasons why you could never ever have him.
"Maggie?" Fred was looking at me with a faintly worried sort of half-smile, his gaze careful. "Are you all right?"
Ha. Hardly
I forced a smile. "Sorry. Mind wandered for a moment. Long day and all. I'm fine, really."
He nodded thoughtfully, but there was a faint crease between his eyebrows, like he didn't quite believe me and didn't want to say so.
I couldn't really blame him.
That dance with Fred was a bit like idly tugging on a loose thread and suddenly finding the left sleeve of your jumper completely unraveled.
I was distracted, to put it mildly. I laughed and danced with the others, even had a few more dances with Fred, but I wasn't all there. I needed some time to myself, some space and quiet to just think.
So, when Uncle Pete and Aunt Lynn said they were knackered and going to head back to the hotel a little early, I faked a yawn and said that sounded great and that I'd walk back with them. Alicia gave me a curious look, like she had a notion that something was bothering me.
"Are you all right?" she asked as I hugged her goodbye.
"Yes, absolutely," I said, flashing her a beatific smile. "Just tired."
She didn't look like she believed me, but she let me go anyway. And honestly: it was her wedding night. I didn't want or expect her to spend time fretting about why her cousin seemed a bit off. It wasn't like she could do anything about it anyway.
The hotel room felt empty and odd without Alicia and her things. And in fact, in the first few seconds after the lock clicked shut, I wondered if I'd made a mistake in leaving early. Should I go back to the restaurant? I could always claim I'd found a second wind.
But the feeling was fleeting, transforming quickly into gratitude for the silence. I began the process of getting undressed, unpinning my hair, washing my face, and getting ready for bed…and the process of sorting through the thoughts that had been buzzing in my head like bees for the past few hours.
There was no denying I was attracted to Fred, though it would certainly be more convenient if I wasn't. He was handsome and funny and our quiet conversations in the middle of the night left me feeling rather wonderstruck and breathless in a way that I hadn't felt in a very long time.
But that didn't make it simple.
There wasn't just the obstacle that he somehow—improbably, impossibly—had to be interested in me, a genuine basket case. Even when you set that aside, there were still so many problems, so many ways that I could fuck things up.
And chief among those problems was this: every time I thought about what it might be like to be in a successful and healthy relationship with someone, I was essentially imagining a version of myself that hadn't existed since that day in May, a Maggie without scars, or at least a Maggie who had healed more than I had.
This felt like a necessary embellishment because the two short relationships that I'd had since the War painted a rather grim picture of my romantic future: short-lived, riddled with misunderstandings and secrets, shaped by my particular pain and problems that I didn't know how to fix. Before the War, intimacy hadn't been difficult. I could talk about my feelings, I didn't keep secrets, I liked sex; after the War, intimacy became complicated enough that I often felt as though I was dealing with an entirely different version of myself that I didn't completely understand.
That version of Maggie hadn't known how to tell her boyfriend Anthony that his reverence of her scars made her uncomfortable, like it was the only thing he saw about her. She also hadn't known how to explain to her next boyfriend, Thomas, that her breath had hitched in her throat when he'd taken off her shirt in the kitchen of her flat, but that half second when his gaze shifted—not quite a flinch, but almost—undid everything and made her long for Anthony's hyper focused veneration because it had at least offered the possibility that he wasn't put off by her scars.
That Maggie hadn't spoken up, opting instead to live with those hurts clenched like a fist in her throat, withdrawing further and further into herself. That version of Maggie started keeping her shirt on during sex, or insisting on total darkness, and swore up and down that these things were normal and reasonable until everything fell apart in the expected, inevitable way.
And the thing is…I had no reason to believe that this wouldn't happen again with Fred or with anyone else. There was no reason to think I wouldn't continue to hide my scars or that Fred's tolerance of my issues wouldn't have an expiration date. And even if those things were different, there was also the question of whether it would be fair to put him through all of my bullshit when he carried his own considerable burdens from the War.
The worst part of all of this was that I had no idea how to go about fixing it. The only option that I seemed to have was accepting my own loneliness and accepting that this was simply another thing that had been taken from me on that day in May. It meant going home early from Alicia's wedding, ignoring any hint of possibility that had existed in Fred's slow smiles and warm eyes.
I stared at myself in the mirror for a long moment. My hair fell loose over my shoulders in soft waves and my eyelashes were a little darker than normal, still clinging to a shadow of mascara. I looked tired and a little sad.
"This is for the best," I said aloud, as though this would make it true.
The Maggie in the mirror didn't look particularly convinced.
Honestly, it wasn't the best lie I'd ever told myself.
I flopped down on the bed and picked up my book. I'd spent the last part of Alicia's wedding wishing for both the time and space to just think and now I was feeling as though I'd gone too far in the opposite direction and thought too much. And try as I might, my thoughts kept wandering back to the dance floor at the restaurant…
I sighed, flinging my arm over my eyes. This was all so incredibly stupid.
There was a soft knock on the sliding glass door.
I lifted my arm off my eyes. Even after all my worrying and handwringing and unconvincing lies, I knew immediately who I wanted it to be.
I stood up slowly and took a deep breath before walking to the door. My heart was pounding, and my hand trembled slightly as I pushed the shade aside.
And there, standing on my terrace, was Fred Weasley.
He had, at some point since I'd seen him last, got rid of his suit vest and undone the first few buttons of his dress shirt, a detail that I was fairly certain was going to drive me to distraction, especially when paired with that crooked grin. My heart raced as I undid the latch and opened the door.
"And to what do I owe this honor?" I said, not quite able to hold back a smile.
"Well, I nicked this from Lee," he said, holding up what looked like a bottle of champagne, "and it felt wrong to drink it by myself, so I thought I'd see if you fancied a nightcap."
I raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure that most people would consider champagne a nightcap."
His grin was cheeky. "All the more reason for it, then."
I laughed and pretended to think about this for a moment, like my sodding heart hadn't already wandered out there without me. "Well, all right."
"Regrettably, I don't have any chocolate biscuits to offer you this time," he said as I stepped out onto the terrace and shut the door behind me.
"Well of course not, that's only appropriate after two o'clock in the morning," I said, plopping down on one of the chaises. "It's after eleven on the night of a wedding: you're supposed to bring cake."
He sighed as he sat down on the chaise opposite mine. "I'm afraid that I'm going to be a terrible disappointment, then."
I gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fred."
"I know, I'm sorry." He tapped the label on the champagne bottle. "It's good champagne, though. Surely that counts for something." He gave me a wide eyed, hopeful sort of look and I couldn't even pretend not to smile.
"I suppose I'll get over it."
He chuckled. "Do you want to do the honors or shall I?"
"Go ahead."
He fished his wand out of his pocket and uncorked the bottle with a tap. Champagne fizzed over the top of the bottle, spilling onto his hand and the tile of the terrace. "Probably should've conjured the glasses first," he said, shaking some of the spillage off of his hand and onto the tile. "Unless you'd prefer to drink it straight from the bottle like heathens."
"Well, naturally."
He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
I shrugged. "Why not? It's late, we're near the end of holiday, and we're already flouting social conventions by having champagne as a nightcap. We might as well."
He grinned and handed me the bottle. "You're a woman after my own heart, Maggie Carlyle."
He had absolutely no idea. My cheeks warmed and I took a long pull before passing it back to him.
"Cheers." He exhaled and took a drink before turning his gaze back to me. "So. I've got a bit of a confession to make."
"I'll be honest, Fred: that's not exactly the most reassuring thing to hear from someone who's turned up unexpectedly at your hotel room door after eleven o'clock at night."
He chuckled quietly and passed the bottle back to me. "It's not that sort of confession."
I raised an eyebrow as I took another swig. "Then what sort of confession is it?"
"Hopefully a less unsettling one than the serial killer scenario that you just painted for me."
"I'll be the judge of that."
He grinned and cleared his throat, leaning forward and propping his elbows up on his knees. "So, here it is: there have probably been…I dunno, at least half a dozen times this week when I ought to have kissed you and I'm really regretting that I didn't."
The champagne very nearly slipped from my hands. "What?" was the first thing I managed to say, though I'd heard him perfectly well the first time.
"I ought to have kissed you," he said simply. "Several items."
I looked at him, trying to sort out the reality of what he just said. After a solid week of telling myself that I had been imagining things, that he hadn't thought about kissing me, that my attraction was decidedly one-sided, it was disorienting to hear him say the opposite. He had to be joking…but he didn't seem like he was joking. If anything, he seemed unusually serious—almost like he might be a little nervous.
"Well, you're looking at me like I've just confessed to being a serial killer," he said, pursing his lips. "So that's not ideal."
"No, I'm sorry…I just—" My mouth felt rather dry and I licked my lips. "—I just wasn't—I didn't expect you to…I mean, I didn't realize that you were interested…"
He raised an eyebrow, barely holding back a smile. "You seriously didn't realize?"
"No. I never—I mean, surely I had…" I set the champagne bottle down on the ground and ran a hand through my hair. "I'm sorry, this is just…this is all very surreal."
His grin widened slightly. "I mean, I thought I was fairly obvious. Painfully obvious in some cases. The coffee alone was a bit of a giveaway."
"I thought…I mean, I just didn't…" I trailed off, trying to process this new information. One question nudged its way to the forefront of my mind. "Well—I mean…erm—why—why didn't you?"
He gave me a slow smile that didn't do any favors for my pounding heart. "You're a hard woman to read, Maggie Carlyle."
"How do you mean?"
"I'd think the moment was right and then something would shift in your eyes or you'd look away and I'd start to think I'd imagined it until the next time you turned up all barefoot and pretty on my terrace."
I was entirely unprepared for the way that my stomach would promptly launch itself into orbit when Fred Weasley called me pretty.
"That's…well…that's more analytical than I might have expected from a Gryffindor," I said.
He raised his eyebrows. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
"You seem more likely to just blaze ahead and work out the details later."
"Well, there's brave and then there's foolhardy. Contrary to popular belief, we do know the difference." His voice was low and soft. "So, would it have been foolhardy for me to have kissed you?"
I hesitated for a moment—briefly, but long enough that I caught the slight shift in his expression, a glimmer of disappointment.
"No, not foolhardy but…" I trailed off uncertainly, searching for words. "It's not that I don't want that—I do. A lot. But it's just…with everything that happened with the War and with—with my brother I—" I paused and swallowed hard. "I'm a bit damaged," I said, finally, hating how small and sad my voice sounded. "It—it left a lot of scars. Physically and emotionally."
If I'd been having this conversation with anyone else, I suspect that they might have tried to cut in at this point, but Fred was patient and quiet, waiting for me to sort out what I was trying to say.
"It's just that…regardless of what I want—and like I said, I—erm—I do…want that—there are some things that are still…really hard for me." I waited a beat, pressing my lips together. "I…I'm just a bit of a mess and I don't want to be unfair to you."
"Maggie." He said my name softly, waiting until I lifted my gaze to his before he continued. "None of what you've said changes my mind."
"You say that now, but—" I swallowed hard and looked away. "It's…well. Let's just say it wouldn't be the first time someone changed their mind. Or the second, for that matter."
He looked at me thoughtfully for a long moment. "So, to summarize: you're interested in me, I'm interested in you, we have a shared interest in kissing one another, but you're trying to save my feelings because some idiots were awful to you about the consequences of your near death experience."
I frowned. "Well, it sounds stupid when you put it like that."
"Your entire premise is based on the bad reactions of completely different people." His lip twitched like he was barely holding back a smile. "It's not the most reasonable thing I've ever heard you say."
"I've…I've got a lot of emotional baggage," I said. "It's not exactly fun to deal with. I think it's reasonable to assume that's a deal breaker for most people"
"Well, I'm not most people," he said. "It doesn't change my mind."
"You can't really make a proper assessment of that based on a week."
He raised an eyebrow. "Yes, what would I know about War-related baggage?"
I immediately felt terrible. Hot, shameful tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"I know."
"I just—"
"Maggie." He placed his hand over mine and I couldn't help but hate him just a little because it reminded me how nicely my hand fit in his. "It's all right." His fingers squeezed mine. "Just breathe."
I paused for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. "This is exactly the sort of thing that I mean. You don't need to deal with all of this."
"I think I'm quite capable of deciding that for myself."
I swallowed hard. He wasn't wrong.
A silence settled between us. He was still holding my hand and it still felt rather lovely in all the ways it shouldn't. The silence was pressing in on me, becoming unbearable.
I stood abruptly. "I should go."
Here's the problem with trying to flee the scene while someone's holding your hand: you completely lose the element of surprise and it makes it very difficult to effectively get away.
"Maggie, wait."
His grip on my hand tightened and he stood up. Without my heels, our height difference was even more stark, and his eyes had an intensity that made my knees feel a little wobbly.
"Look," he said quietly, "just…hear me out for a moment."
I paused, worrying my lower lip between my teeth.
"Please, Maggie."
My resolve weakened with that please. Surely there wasn't any harm in hearing him out. He'd come here and confessed; I hadn't been that brave. It wasn't unreasonable to suggest that he was at least owed a chance to make his case. I didn't have to let it change my mind.
I relaxed slightly. "I can give you a moment."
He nodded. "Okay."
But then instead of dropping my hand and giving me some dramatic speech or another, he pulled me to him and kissed me.
For all the time I'd spent mooning over Fred, I was entirely unprepared for how quickly a kiss from him would turn all of my bones into butter. The rhythm of it came without thought, his lips molding to mine, simultaneously gentle and insistent. He dropped my hand only to bring his hands up to cup my cheeks. The tip of his tongue tasted my lower lip and my hands automatically gripped his shoulders to keep myself from crumpling. My lips parted and he tasted like champagne, all sharp and sweet.
There were reasons why he shouldn't be kissing me like this and reasons why I shouldn't be kissing him back, but they were slippery as eels. If you'd asked me my own name at that moment, I wouldn't have been able to tell you. I was standing on my tiptoes in an effort to get closer to him, my arms wrapping around his neck, completely surrendering to a blissful state of hypocrisy.
He pulled back after a moment, just enough so that he could look me in the eye. A thrill went through me when I noticed that his breath was just a little ragged.
"Let me take you on a date, Maggie," he said quietly. His hands still framed my face, his fingertips gently caressing my cheeks. "Just one. It doesn't have to be a big production. Just a dinner and a nice evening."
I sucked in a shaky breath. "Fred, I'm a mess."
He shrugged. "So what? I like a challenge."
A few tears spilled down my cheeks. "It's not that simple."
He was brushing the tears from my cheeks. "It's not that complicated, either." He smoothed a hand against my hair. "We can take things at your pace, see how it goes. I'm not in any hurry and I'm not scared off that easily. I promise."
He looked so earnest and sweet and careful and it was slowly eroding my focus and obliterating all the reasons I'd come up with earlier for why he wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't want me. It had been easy to call this a bad idea when it was an absurd hypothetical, but it was so different when he was holding me like this under the stars, my lips still tingling from that kiss. (And god, it had been a good kiss).
I was a mess, but he was looking at me like that didn't matter. He'd kissed me like it didn't matter.
And maybe it was something about the moonlight and the warmth in his eyes, but for the first time in a long time, I could see a little glimmer of a maybe. Not a certainty, not a guarantee, but a maybe. Maybe it would be different. Maybe I wouldn't fuck it up. It was just a flicker, but it was there.
Maybe that was enough.
Fred was looking at me intently, whiskey eyes deep enough to drown in. My skin was buzzing with the heady combination of the late hour, his proximity, champagne, the lingering feeling of that last kiss burning on my lips
I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. I nodded. "Okay."
His smile was like sunshine and he let out a puff of air, like he'd been holding his breath. And I'm not really sure if he started kissing me or if I started kissing him, but it didn't really matter because the end result was the same. I couldn't decide what part I liked the most—the feeling of his arms around me, my hands on his broad shoulders, the intoxicating taste of his lips, the rough rasp of his stubble on my lips as he pulled me closer still. His body pressed against mine in a way that felt as though it had been designed to remind me of how long it had been since I'd last been held like this and how much time I'd spent wanting him under the dark skies of Las Ballenas.
My heart was beating so wildly in my chest and I felt elated, nervous, and maybe a little scared, my senses utterly overwhelmed with him: the taste of his lips, the warm glide of his tongue against mine, the feeling of his arms finally around me, that smell of cinnamon and something woodsy. I was simultaneously drowning and soaring, and it was so good and overwhelming that I never wanted it to end.
It might have been a heartbeat or an eternity later when there was a slight pause. I rested my forehead against his, eyes partly shut, trying to savor every part of this moment. If I could just focus on the blissfulness of it all, perhaps my brain wouldn't chime in with some utterly unhelpful observation or doomsaying.
"So," he said after a moment, his voice so low and soft, "how about tomorrow night for dinner?"
I started slightly, lifting my head to look at him. "Tomorrow?"
He shrugged. "Why not?"
I wasn't about to say this to him, but the truth was that I thought I'd have at least a week to prepare so that I didn't make an entire ass of myself. With such short notice, though, who knows would could happen. "I—er, well, will it be odd to explain that to everyone if we just go off somewhere else for dinner?"
"I don't think it really requires explanation," he said. "I'm taking you out to dinner. It's fairly straightforward." His lip twitched. "And honestly, I don't think anyone's going to be surprised."
I paused for a second. He looked slightly too amused for me to take that comment strictly at face value.
"What do you mean by that?" I asked.
"Well," he said, clearly fighting a smile, "the champagne may not have been nicked from the groom so much as forcibly shoved into my hands by the bride a little after you left."
My mouth opened as I slowly pieced that together. "She didn't."
"I believe her exact words were 'take this and go making a fucking move already.'"
I gaped at him for a moment. "I don't care if it is her wedding, I'm going to throttle her. There was supposed to be a moratorium on this topic until after her honeymoon."
He raised an eyebrow, a full grin breaking out over his face. "I didn't realize I was such a frequent topic of conversation."
I groaned and put my palms over my face, like that would protect me from further humiliation. "Shit. I didn't say that. You didn't hear that."
"Hey." His hands were closing round my wrists, gently prying my hands off my face. His expression was mirthful, but sweet, a little softened. "It turned out all right, didn't it?"
I sighed, my gaze drifting to a point somewhere over his shoulder. "Maybe."
"Maybe?"
I immediately felt awful. "Fuck. No. I didn't mean it like that." I sat back down on the chaise in a slouch.
Fred sat down next to me. "How did you mean it, then?"
It sounds like such a strange thing to say, but he looked at me like he really cared about the answer, which gave me a strange and wonderful feeling that I couldn't quite put a name to.
"I meant that in terms of…there are just…so many ways I could fuck this up. Like I'm doing right now, for example." I swallowed hard. "It's just very hard for me to pretend that's not a likely possibility."
"I might've noticed that concern seems to be a theme in this conversation."
I shrugged. "My anxiety is consistent, at least."
"Your anxiety has a flaw, though," he said, tapping his forefinger against his lips. "Do you want to know what it is?"
"Is it that I should stop worrying and believe in myself?" I asked tonelessly.
He grinned. "While that would be an inherently good thing for you to do, I think we both know if I say that, you'll just tell me it doesn't work like that, so I don't see the need to go down that path. No, I'm going to tell you something completely different."
He had certainly succeeded in piquing my interest.
"All right," I said. "What's the massive flaw in my anxiety?"
He leaned toward me. "You are completely discounting one very important fact." He paused before lowering his voice to a whisper. "I am also very capable of fucking things up."
I couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up in my throat.
"You laugh," he said, "but I have a long and storied history of fucking things up. Some might even say it's my life's work."
I tilted my head to the side and looked at him. He was grinning at me, but there was also a sweetness in his expression, a sort of playful earnestness that was hard to not find endearing. And though I didn't like admitting it, there was also something about his statement that—in some strange way—was actually comforting and reassuring.
I blew out a short sigh and he raised an eyebrow.
"What's that about?" he asked.
"That's twice in one night that you've gone and said the exact right thing," I said, giving my best stern look. "It's still quite irritating."
His eyes lit up and he gave me a wide smile. "And that still doesn't make sense."
"Pointing that out doesn't make it any less irritating."
He chuckled quietly and there was a moment of comfortable, companionable silence between us.
"So," he said after a moment, "can I take you to dinner tomorrow evening?"
I drew in a slightly shaky breath as I met his gaze. "Yeah. I'd like that."
His eyes were warm as he reached to brush a lock of hair behind my ear. "Good."
And between the moonlight, whiskey eyes, slow smiles, and the glimmer of a maybe, it felt like something wonderful might be possible.
