A/N: Hello! It's a been a minute since my last update. My apologies. In fact, last time I updated this fic was pre-COVID, so I hope that this finds you all well and healthy.

So, first thing's first: I want to talk about J.K. Rowling for just a moment. While I was writing this chapter, she said some truly awful things about the trans community. And then she doubled down and kept saying awful things. Because I participate in a fandom for a world that she created, I wanted to be very clear about my stance on this issue: trans women are women, trans men are men, and trans rights are human rights. JKR's views on this issue are appalling to me and antithetical to my values and I condemn them in the strongest possible terms. I feel that fanfic is removed enough from JKR that I can still continue to write/read, but I didn't feel like it would be right for me to not say anything about this. I also wanted to clarify that my participation in fanfic should not be construed as support of JKR or her views. And while I'm discussing current events related to human rights: Black lives matter.

I feel like it's hard to segue from this, so…back to fanfic stuff?

The song "Treacherous" by Taylor Swift is one that I tend to think about a lot when I write this fic, but especially while writing this last chapter.

Full disclosure: I have been pretty mentally drained since the pandemic and lockdowns began (for me, that was in March) and it has had an impact on my productivity, which was a bit lagging even before all of this. I don't know when the next chapter will be posted, but please be assured that I am still writing, it is just taking a lot longer than I would like. And let me know what you think of this chapter—I love hearing from you!

Chapter 23: Linger

I slept in fitfully that night, plagued with strange dreams that startled me into wakefulness, my heart pounding hard. Mostly, they were the sort of dreams you'd expect—variations on the same theme of black cloaked figures, screaming, blood, darkness, and death. They might have been a cliché if they didn't feel so real.

But the worst dreams weren't nightmares in the traditional sense. The worst dreams were the ones where everything was fine and none of this had happened: with those dreams, you had to contend with the reality of waking up in a world that was just as dark and scary as it had been when you went to sleep—and then you had to mourn the loss of your safety and comfort all over again.

I woke just before five. Waking up wasn't so bad at first—the harsh reality of the waking world was somewhat blunted by the weight of the quilt and the warmth of Fred's arms around me. I was pleasantly sleepy and sluggish. Briefly, I contemplated closing my eyes and letting myself drift off again—I was so warm and comfortable and it's not like Fred was asking me to leave…

But then the gears in my brain began to creak into motion and everything that had happened the previous night suddenly stood out in sharp relief, stirring a combination of fear and sadness somewhere in my chest.

The next thing I noticed was the absence of certain key pieces of clothing.

My jumper and knickers had seemed adequate when I pulled them on last night, but in the pale light of morning, I was painfully aware of all the bits and pieces that they didn't cover. My legs, for example. Which were tangled up with Fred's bare legs, like a too intimate physical manifestation of the Gordian knot that was our entire relationship.

I didn't regret anything, but I felt self-conscious and exposed in a way that I didn't entirely understand.

None of this made it any easier to get out of bed, though. For all my anxiety and misgivings about this particular tableau, there was something almost hypnotically seductive and comfortable about his arms and the warmth of his bed in the early morning light. There was a part of me—a large part of me—that was very tempted to stay.

But staying was at odds with my reality. If I waited too long to leave, the more likely it was that someone would notice, and the thought of conspicuously returning back to my own bed the morning after I'd actually lost my virginity made me feel a little sick and strange. It didn't seem right to present it for public consumption and gossip, even though it would further serve our narrative. It felt like an intensely private thing, a strange sort of secret that I was compelled to shield from the world.

Ultimately, this was what made me carefully lift Fred's arm from my waist and begin the process of quietly gathering my clothes.

"You leaving?" Fred asked sleepily as I pulled on my jeans.

"Yeah, sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"'s all right, you're fine."

I ran my hands through my hair. It had come loose at some point during the night, the elastic nowhere to be found. Probably, it looked a mess. I combed my fingers through it as best I could, wishing I had a mirror.

"All right, well…" It occurred to me that I was stalling. I swallowed, my hands nervously smoothing out the quilt. It's not that I wanted to stay, but the thought of leaving was also making me feel oddly restless and anxious, like I needed some sort of reassurance that I couldn't quite name.

There was a beat of quiet before Fred spoke.

"D'you still feel all right about everything?" His tone was careful, like he might be a little worried.

"Yeah, of course." I licked my lips, realizing that I was a little afraid of the question I was about to ask. "Do you?"

"Yeah, if you do."

I nodded. "Okay."

There was another moment of silence, but it felt different. Odd. Awkward. My stomach turned and my pulse began to race, that unnamed restlessness blooming into a choking anxiety. Was this our new normal? Had I made a mistake? The prospective loss of that easy comfort that had become so characteristic of my relationship with Fred drew a lump into my throat and I blinked rapidly. Had I known that I would be sacrificing that…would I have gone through with it anyway?

"Are you sure you're all right?" I asked, my voice a little unsteady.

He frowned, propping himself up on his elbow. "What's wrong?"

"It's just—you don't seem all right with it…" My voice had a bit of a strained quality to it. Not quite hysterical but upset or something near it.

Fred's expression softened and he reached for me as he sat up, slinging an arm around my shoulders. He was still not wearing a shirt. Probably, this should have been the sort of thing that felt a little too intimate, but instead, I found myself leaning into him, my cheek resting against the warmth of his bare shoulder.

"Charlotte," he murmured into my hair, "I meant what I said: I'm fine with it if you are. Anything that contradicts that is more reflective of the fact that it's five o'clock in the morning and I'm still half asleep."

I was suddenly filled with a wild relief that made me want to laugh hysterically. Of course. It was early. Nothing had changed. No bridges had been burned. Everything was fine. Fred and I were fine.

"Sorry, I just—this was all very—" I took in a shaky breath, my pulse hammering wildly in my throat. "I'm just a bit off kilter, is all."

He chuckled sleepily. "Do you mean to tell me that you've finally broken your years long streak of absolutely perfect behavior and impeccable composure? I thought I'd never see the day."

I scoffed lightly. "Fred, please. You know I'm just as messy as anyone else—the only difference is I'm better at hiding it."

Another sleepy laugh, a slight pause. "Pretend that I'm awake enough to come up with a witty response to that."

I smiled against his shoulder. "I am pretending. It was clever, but not your best work. Solid effort, though."

He sighed. "You can't even give me a break in your imagination, can you, Lewis?"

"It's five o'clock in the morning, Weasley. My imagination is scarcely awake."

We stayed there for a moment, my head resting on his shoulder, his arm still draped around me. The smell of sandalwood and citrus prickled at my nostrils, mixed with an appealing sort of musk. Sweat and sex paired with late nights and early mornings. It was nice.

That sleepy, seductive warmth was curling around my limbs once again, tempting me to stay. I was so tired, and he was so warm, and it was so early…

Early. Right. It was early and my window of discreet escape was closing as the sun rose in the sky.

"I should probably go," I said, more to convince myself.

"Probably."

It was another heartbeat or two before I lifted my head from his shoulder, and he dropped his arm from me. He met my gaze, his expression soft and careful.

"We're good though," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Best fake couple in the history of this fine institution."

I smiled, but I felt like it didn't quite reach my eyes. "Excellent."

I meant to lean in to peck him on the cheek. I'm not really sure if I misjudged the distance or maybe he turned his head a bit, but whatever it was, I found myself lightly brushing my lips against his instead. I pulled back quickly, feeling oddly embarrassed, though I couldn't quite articulate why.

"Well, erm." I cleared my throat, fidgeting with my clothes. "I'll see you, I guess."

"Yeah." He took a deep breath. "Get some sleep, okay? I've a feeling it's going to be a long day."

It was like a bucket of ice water, shattering the sleepy peace we'd created in the safety of his bed, a reminder of all the dark and unsettling reasons why we'd ended up in the same bed in the first place. A sudden chill seized me, and I wrapped my arms around myself with a shudder. "Yeah."

His expression softened and he reached for me again. I leaned into his embrace without a second thought, my cheek pressed against his bare shoulder as his arms wrapped around me. We were two people clinging to each other in the midst of something terrible, paper airplanes caught up in a cyclone.

"The world is bloody awful," he said.

"Yeah."

Strange as it sounds, I was glad he didn't tell me it was going to be okay. That would have been a lie: neither one of us knew if it would be okay. It was entirely possible that it wouldn't be. And for some reason, that particular kernel of honesty was a relief, like no matter how bad things got, we'd at least have that one truth between us, that one little thing to hang onto.

Fred's embrace was warm enough to stave off the chill that curled at the base of my spine, but I could feel it waiting there, crouched like a panther ready to spring. Perhaps that was why I felt so cold when I pulled away from him a moment later.

"Go to sleep," he said gently. "I mean it."

I felt a pang of sadness, a longing for a time when things were simple enough to solve with a good night's sleep. "I'll try."

He hesitated for just a moment before leaning forward and brushing his lips against my cheek. "See you."

My dormitory was dark and entirely still when I crept in a few minutes later. I hadn't met anyone as I'd tiptoed out of the boys' dormitory and although I could tell that a few people had fallen asleep in the common room, none stirred as I padded up the stairs (and I wasn't about to tempt fate by sticking around, anyway). I undressed quickly and pulled on a pair of pajamas, slipping on my jumper as an afterthought before crawling into bed.

I knew I should try to sleep, but my head was buzzing with all sorts of thoughts. Fred's bed had been warm and quiet—it seemed I wasn't afforded a similar reprieve on my own. But the slight soreness in the muscles of my inner thighs brought one particular thought to the forefront of my mind as I stared up at the canopy.

I was no longer a virgin. I'd had sex. With Fred.

Slight muscle soreness aside, I didn't feel any different—I hadn't expected to, really. Mentally, I was pretty much the same as I had been before.

Except…well…now in the early morning light and back in my own bed, I couldn't help but acknowledge that having sex with Fred was probably not a very good idea. Any person with some amount of sense would agree with that. You don't just go and have sex with a friend and expect things to be the same. There was an entire genre of romantic comedies about that sort of mistake.

But at the same time…it's not like things had actually been any different the morning afterward. He said we were fine, neither one of us regretted it. Surely, every rule has its exception—who's to say that we weren't the exception to this one?

And the other thing was that so much of my relationship with Fred could be classified as not a good idea that I couldn't really bring myself to feel particularly worried about this specific not-good idea. It hadn't exactly inoculated me against worry (ha!), but it had warped my perspective on what merited concern. This was a one-time thing that had come about because of extraordinary and unusual circumstances. In the grand scheme of things, it probably didn't matter—it was too unusual, a once in a blue moon sort of outlier. There wasn't anything to worry about.

In retrospect, the absence of worry ought to have been another clue.

At noon the same day, Professor Dumbledore told us that You Know Who had returned.

He used his proper name, of course, so my immediate reaction was a combination flinch-and-shudder that was a physical manifestation of the fact that I felt as though my spine was about to crawl out of my back all on its own. Though I heard the name rarely, it always brought me back to the same place: being three years old and not understanding the hushed voices or why so many grownups had a pale and pinched look about them, but knowing that it must be something terrible because grownups weren't supposed to be so afraid. The events of the previous day had led me to think that something You Know Who adjacent was happening, but it was the sort of thought that was so outlandishly impossible that I expected some sort of catch: We thought it was him, but it wasn't. Turns out he's got a brother who's just as bad. It was just some nutter in a very convincing costume. This was only a test.

But instead, Professor Dumbledore had stood in front of the entire student body and explained in his preternaturally calm way that You Know Who had returned. All my tidy explanations vanished, and a potent mixture of fear, existential dread, and adrenaline coursed through my veins with all the fury of a hurricane. The creeping chill that had been lurking in my bones since last night stirred to life and stretched like a cat, clawing its way up the vertebrae in my spine, creeping along my ribs and then to my shoulder blades, down my arms, twining around my fingers. I balled my hands into fists and wrapped my arms around myself, wishing that I'd thought to bring an extra jumper.

The Great Hall filled with the whispering of hundreds of students, echoing off the rafters, ratcheting up my own anxiety until my pulse was humming in my throat.

Dumbledore raised his hand. "Quiet, please."

It took a moment for the Great Hall to fall quiet, the whispers giving way to an unnatural silence that made me feel even more uneasy.

"I am certain that you have questions," said Dumbledore. "Regrettably, I can provide very few answers. There is much that cannot be shared and more that we do not know."

At this point, the haze of my internal chaos was clearing enough for me to remember Bea, which prompted its own separate anxiety spiral. I couldn't look at her like I was worried about her, even though I was—she was apt to frown or lash out at anything that drew attention to her, anything that suggested that she was any more fragile than any other person. Instead, I settled for a quick glance out of the corner of my eye, noting the set of her jaw, how her lips pressed into a thin, hard line, how she stared at Dumbledore with a flinty, unreadable look. You couldn't have guessed her family history from looking her, which I suspect is how she preferred it to be.

Still…it didn't make worrying about her any easier. I could talk to Bea about anything…except this. This was the one thing she never wanted to talk about, the one part of her that was off limits despite our years of friendship. I had no idea how to navigate any of it.

I caught George performing the same sneaky evaluation from where he sat across the table. His gaze was careful, a hint of worry pulling at the corners of his lips, like he wasn't quite convinced by the face she was putting on.

He looked at her like he knew all the complicated and confusing parts of who she was and liked her all the more for it. There were sonnets and love songs in that look.

It was equal parts sweet and heartbreaking, a combination that was absolutely maddening.

Surely the return of the most powerful Dark Wizard of the modern age merited an exception to Fred's stupid rules. It had to. No reasonable person could be expected to just stand by and not do anything about it. And with the way the world was, who knew if…

I swallowed hard. I wouldn't think about that. It was too much darkness for one twenty-four-hour period.

The additional information that McGonagall had promised us the night before seemed to be in scant supply. Dumbledore said all the right things about perseverance and standing against evil and so on, but if you took the time to really think about what he was saying, it was heavy on comfort and rather short on substance. Some people might object to that—saying he was coddling us or what have you—but I didn't mind. We were all too stunned and afraid to really take much of anything in. A bit of comfort wasn't going to hurt anyone.

He didn't speak for very long, soon leaving us to a lunch that no one felt like eating.

I looked at Bea. She was staring at her plate, a muscle in her jaw twitching like she was clenching her teeth. But before I could even begin to wonder what I should say, she was standing, nearly upending her water goblet in the process.

"I need some air," she said quickly.

I was on my feet and chasing after her before I could give it a second thought. As much as I didn't know what to do or what to say, there was absolutely no way I was about to let her go off on her own. Not after everything that had happened.

I didn't catch up to her until just outside the Great Hall. "Bea, wait."

She barely glanced up at me. "I'm fine, I just need some air," she said, her tone a little clipped.

My temper flared, quick as a cobra strike, startling me in its suddenness. "Beatrice Crowell Pierce, if you honestly think that I'm going to let you wander the grounds by yourself after everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours, you're absolutely barking mad and I will not argue with you about it."

Something about the vehemence in my voice seemed to soften her, the sternness in her expression fading slightly. "I'm just going to the clocktower courtyard, not wandering the grounds."

"Don't care," I said, linking my arm with hers for good measure. "We don't have to talk, but you're not going off by yourself. It's non-negotiable."

She sighed, but she didn't seem irritated. "Fine."

We walked in silence all the way to the clocktower courtyard, where we sat side by side on the edge of the fountain. The silence between us made the sounds of the fountain seem strangely loud, which only served to twist my stomach into a knot. Normally, silence wouldn't worry me, but the girl who sat next to me seemed half a stranger. Everything I could possibly say seemed wrong, like it might hurt instead of help.

I was fully prepared to give Bea her space and not try to make her talk about anything, but she was the first to speak. "I suppose I ought to write to Dad," she said.

I nodded. "Probably."

She paused for a long moment. "How do you even explain something like this?"

My heart ached for her and try as I might, I wasn't quite able to hide that from my expression. She noticed immediately, her brow pulling into a frown. "What?"

It was clipped, a little defensive. I'd already mucked this up. I took a deep breath. "It's just…"

You shouldn't have to tell your father that the movement that murdered your mother is rising again. You're only sixteen. This was a truth that felt too real, too knife-sharp, twisting in my stomach, feeding the chill that curled around my bones.

I couldn't say any of that, of course. It was too direct, too likely to be mistaken for pity that she resented rather than the sympathy that it was. But I couldn't just not say anything.

"I wish you didn't have the responsibility of telling him," I said after a moment. "After everything else…it's just…it's really fucking unfair." The words caught a bit in my throat.

Bea's eyes softened a bit and her posture relaxed slightly. "Yeah. I guess it is." She gave a strained, bitter laugh. "And it's not like they make greeting cards for this sort of thing, so…"

It was funny in a very dark sort of way, but I didn't really feel like I could laugh at it. I shifted a bit uncomfortably. "Can I do anything?"

Bea shook her head, her too sharp smile fading into a sigh. "No. It's fine, I'll sort it out." She chewed on her lip. "It's just…not exactly how I imagined I'd be finishing up my sixth year."

"Yeah…"

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry, I know I'm difficult about…" She made a vague, expansive gesture. "All this. I'm trying not to be, but—" She cut off, staring hard at the cobblestones, jaw set and eyes bright like she was trying not to cry. "…it's just hard," she said, finally.

"It's all right," I said gently. "I want to help, you know. I'm just not sure about the best way."

"I know." She sighed again, leaning against the pillar of the fountain. "You are helping and I love you for that. It's just…stupidly complicated."

There was another pause. I could hear everything I couldn't say in that silence, all my inadequacies as a friend. Surely, a good friend would not be so stymied. A good friend would be able to read Bea's stony expression like a map and know exactly the right thing to say.

"Can we talk about something else?" she said after a moment, her voice sounding small and sad in a way that broke my heart.

"Sure. What do you want to talk about?"

"Literally anything else," she said, with a bit of a sad laugh. "Something that'll make me happy."

The first thing that jumped to mind was, of course, the one thing I wasn't sure if I should share. If I told Bea about what had happened last night, it wouldn't exactly be a lie, but it wouldn't be the whole truth, either. I'd had sex with Fred. It didn't mean anything, but I would have to talk to her about it like it did. It was too far from the truth, while simultaneously too close. That distinction felt a little more morally dubious than it did before all of this. It was bad enough that I was lying to my best friend but lying when she was hurting and grieving felt like a different sort of wrong, the kind that comes back to haunt you when it comes time to weigh your soul.

But at the same time, the combination of general existential terror and anxiety about my own inadequacies made me feel as though I needed to prove that I was worthy of being her friend, that we could still connect about something.

It was a selfish choice. I didn't like thinking about it. But ultimately, that was what tipped the scales: the desire to rid myself of that discomfort.

"Well." I cleared my throat. "This seems a little trivial considering everything that happened but…erm…Fred and I had sex last night."

It felt a little strange sharing this, like I was revealing something that I truly shouldn't be talking about or that she'd somehow be able to suss out the ruse behind the entire thing,

Her reaction wasn't quite as instantaneous as it might have been under normal circumstances, like fear and sadness had her on a brief time delay, but her lips then curled into that familiar sly smile and she was clapping her hands together gleefully.

"Charlotte!" She hugged me tightly. "Tell me absolutely everything. How was it?"

My cheeks were burning—whether it was because I was technically lying or because the topic was sex, I do not know. It might have been a little of both. I cleared my throat. "I dunno, it was nice. I—erm. I enjoyed myself."

"I hope that means that he was a gentleman and actually got you off," said Bea, matter-of-fact as always.

I gave her a stern look. "Bea."

"What? I'm trying to ensure that you had a good experience. Far too many boys seem to believe it's either optional or a myth." She made a bit of a sour face. "Believe me, I've slept with one of them and it wasn't fun."

"Let's just say it was a mutually agreeable endeavor," I said primly.

Bea made a big show of rolling her eyes, heaving a sigh that sounded as though it was heavy enough to throw out here back. "Oh, just say he gave you amazing orgasms, you ninny."

I buried my face in my palms. "I swear to god, you are the most embarrassing person on the face of the planet."

"Oh, go on, there's nothing embarrassing about being with a bloke who gives you amazing orgasms," she said, raising her voice on the last two words so that it echoed in the courtyard.

I dropped my hands from my face to swat at her. "Bea."

My face was on fire and I was a little annoyed, but I was also grateful because it was a welcome glimmer of normality in a day that had been anything but normal. There was life in Bea's eyes—and her laughter was genuine, ringing across the courtyard clear as a bell. For a moment, there in the June sunshine, I could pretend that everything was fine.

"You are an absolutely confounding person, Charlotte Lewis," said Bea. Her gaze became a bit more serious, her smile fading slightly. "But I am really glad, you know. That you're happy and that you had sex with Fred, and that it was good. With everything that happened, I…" She paused for a moment. "I dunno…it's just nice to know that You Know Who can't take away all the good in the world."

I had to look away from her then—I couldn't bear to look at her and lie after hearing something like that. "Yeah. I suppose it is."

It was late in the afternoon when Bea and I returned to Gryffindor Tower. The common room was more crowded than usual—I suspected that most people didn't feel quite right or safe sitting out on the school grounds, which I couldn't really fault them for. Bea snagged a free study table and began the process of drafting a letter to her dad. Fred waved me over to one of the couches, where he and George were sitting, heads bent together over a piece of parchment that vanished rather conspicuously the moment I got near enough to read it.

"What're you doing?" I asked, sitting down next to Fred.

"Nothing that you'll disapprove of too strongly," he said, draping an arm around my shoulders.

I sighed, toeing off my shoes and tucking my legs underneath me. "Shockingly, I don't find that at all comforting."

"To be fair, if I only did things that you approved of, I'd spend all my time reading or studying," said Fred with a sigh.

"You can't ask a person to live like that," said George.

"It's cruel."

"Cruel and inhumane. You'd crush his spirit."

Fred clapped a hand to his chest. "I can feel it withering right now."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, spare me the theatrics and just tell me I won't have to write you up for it."

"You've only got so many opportunities left to write me up before summer holidays," said Fred, putting on what he evidently believed was his most charming smile. "I'd think you'd appreciate the opportunity."

"I think I've got enough of those memories to last me well through September."

There was a beat of quiet, accompanied by that strange sort of embarrassment, that we'd forgotten how dark the world was and we were behaving in a way that was disrespectful of the darkness that had arrived on our doorstep not twenty-four hours ago.

"So…is everything all right?" asked George. He was asking me the question, but he was looking at Bea, who had her head bent over her parchment while she wrote almost painfully slowly.

I let out a long breath. "Oh…that's hard to say. She hates talking about it and I try not to push too much so…" I shrugged. "I'm a bit out of my depth."

"Hmm." George steepled his fingers, staring into the middle distance.

I hesitated for a moment. "Honestly, I'm surprised she even told you. She doesn't really talk about it with most people."

Fred gave me a hard look, like he had a notion that I was trying to steer the conversation to a particular conclusion—which, to be fair, I most absolutely was trying to do. I gave him my most beatific smile.

"I have that effect on people." George paused long enough to give me a cheeky grin. "I'm very trustworthy."

I rolled my eyes. "I have loads of evidence that says otherwise."

George turned his gaze back to Bea, looking at her carefully and tilting his head to the side. "Any odds on her biting my head off?"

"Dunno. She's writing her dad, so…" I shrugged. "Could go either way, honestly." I spared a glance for Fred, who was looking at me intently, like he didn't quite trust me. "I think she's going to head to the Owlery after this—would you mind going with her? I don't want her wandering off by herself and I think she's going to get tetchy with me if I insist on going with her."

"Yeah, sure," said George, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Fred was all but openly staring daggers at me as he stood and stretched. "Think I'll risk getting my head bitten off—she probably wouldn't risk calling attention to herself in the middle of the common room, anyway."

I nodded. "Sounds sensible. Good luck."

I could feel Fred's stare boring into me as George walked away. I turned to him with a sigh. "What?

"Lewis, you know exactly what," he said.

"First of all, I hardly think that conversation was in violation of your stupid rules," I said, lowering my voice. "Second, have you considered that perhaps the return of You Know Who might merit an exception to your stupid rules anyway?"

"I don't see how that has any bearing on this at all."

I sighed and suddenly I felt profoundly sad and weary. "Because if everything's about to go to shit, I don't want to stall and have it be too late." I looked at Bea and watched as George sat down next to her, not saying anything, just quietly being there for her. My heart rose in my throat. "If something happens I—" My voice caught, and I found myself surprised to be blinking back tears. "—they should just…they should have a chance to be happy, you know?"

Fred's gaze softened a bit and I found myself leaning into him, craving human contact like it might ease some of the sadness that consumed me.

"Let me think about it a bit," he said quietly.

"Is that your way of trying to get out of this?"

"No. There's a right way of going about this and I'm not sure what that is yet." He caught the serious look I was giving him and gave me a slight smile. "Promise."

"I'm holding you to that, you know."

"I know."

We both saw Lee and Angelina sneak up to the boys' dormitory together that evening.

I wasn't surprised that they did, but I was sad for Fred. It didn't seem fair to him to pile on this additional hurt after what had been a very long and trying day. Of course, you probably wouldn't have known that he was bothered from looking at him—maybe if you were paying attention you heard something that sounded a little like a sigh and maybe you noticed a momentarily flicker of tiredness around his eyes, but that was it. If you blinked, you'd miss it. I squeezed his hand once, a light pressure: I'm sorry, this isn't fair.

All of this, of course, answered a question that he hadn't yet asked me: I'd go to his room again tonight. Of course, I would: I couldn't knowingly let him face that alone.

It was a little less jarring seeing those two sets of clothes on the floor when you're sort of expecting it. There was still a tightness in Fred's jaw that I didn't especially like, a tension in his shoulders that seemed uncharacteristic and strange.

But I was very quickly overwhelmed by other concerns. Just the act of sitting down on his bed was enough to take me back to the night before—his hands on my body, the movement of our hips together, a bubbling, effervescent tension that made my toes curl. I was glad for the initial darkness before he cast Lumos—I was surely blushing and it wouldn't take much guessing for him to work out why.

"Well," he said once he'd cast the Silencing Charm, "I suppose I should've expected today would end like this."

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked, somewhat uncertainly. I didn't know how to read him when he was like this.

A grim twitch of the lips, not quite a scowl. "Not much to talk about."

I hesitated. "Well, I don't like seeing you upset."

"I'm not upset."

I raised an eyebrow. "Really. You're thrilled about what's happening just a few beds over?"

He sighed, suddenly looking very tired. "What do you want from me, Lewis?"

"Nothing, I'm just asking you to be honest. I don't think that's unreasonable of me."

He was quiet, a muscle twitching in his jaw, brows pulled into a frown, and suddenly I'd wondered if I'd gone too far, if I'd pushed too much.

"It's just—you never…" I paused, searching for words. "You don't often act sad about it. Maybe a little, but not a lot. And I just…I dunno, it seems like an unnecessary cruelty to yourself to pretend you're not hurting."

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry. We probably should just…not have this conversation right now."

"Putting it off means you're proving my point, you know."

"No, I just mean…" He gestured sort of futilely at the bed hangings. "…it's not been the easiest day. I'm not exactly at my best and I really don't want to row about this."

It was a bit like touching a pin to a balloon. The anger or annoyance or what have you left me in an instant. I slouched, letting out a long sigh. Of course. I was an idiot. We were both tired and sad and hurting—this was the worst time to try and have that conversation.

"Right." I rubbed my eyes. "I'm sorry, you're right, I shouldn't've—"

"I know."

"It's just I—"

"Don't." His hands covered mine. "It's fine, Charlotte. Really."

I gave a long sigh. "It doesn't feel fine. Nothing does."

"I know."

There was a long moment of quiet.

"So," he said.

"So."

His hands were still holding mine, his thumb absently tracing circles on my knuckles. Looking at his hands, though, was a mistake, as it only reminded me how his hands had been all over me last night, how good he'd made me feel.

How I wouldn't necessarily mind feeling that good again.

I shouldn't be thinking about second times or his hands on my body or mine on his. I knew that this wasn't a good idea, that it wasn't to lead me anywhere good. We'd had sex once, I knew it wasn't a smart idea the first time, I had no more virginity to lose—there was no logical or practical reason to continue to follow this line of thought.

And yet.

When I lifted my gaze to look at him, he was regarding me with a sort of quiet intensity that felt a little familiar—I'd seen something similar last night, and before that, all the times when we'd ventured a little too far, a little beyond kissing. His gaze dropped to my lips and my breath hitched just a little.

The smart thing would be to look away, but I was finding this was a lot easier said than done.

He reached for me as I moved toward him, situating myself in his lap, straddling his hips. There was nothing coy or subtle about this: there was a clear, intentional intimacy, even though we were both still fully clothed. His hands slid up my thighs, settling on my hips. He leaned in, placing soft open-mouthed kisses along my throat. I sighed, my head tipping back, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"This isn't a good idea, is it?" I said, though my voice lacked conviction.

"Probably not." His voice was low and hushed, thrumming pleasantly against my skin. He looked up at me, eyes hooded. "Do you want to stop?"

"No." I licked my lips. "Do you?"

"No."

So, we didn't.

The second time was different the first. We were needier, less hesitant. His hands were bolder, slipping buttons and sliding under my clothes with dexterity that I would have found impressive were I not immediately distracted by what his hands were doing under my clothes. It was a slightly awkward angle, me straddling his lap, his hand between my legs, but it was still enough to render me speechless and panting. He kissed my neck and throat, nipping at my collarbone as my head tilted back with a wordless cry and a shudder.

He let me set the pace this time and as much as I was wanting and craving, I found that I rather liked going slow. Slow allowed me to appreciate the finer points of the encounter—slow allowed me to sort out which angles I liked best. If I paused, his breath would hitch, his hips rolling up to meet mine, his grip on my waist tightening.

But eventually, it all sort of faded as the pressure in my hips blossomed and expanded as I rocked against him until it finally shattered into a million glorious pieces. Fred's face was buried against my neck and he mumbled my name over and over, like it was a prayer or a curse, or maybe a little of both.

He groaned and shuddered and his movements slowed until finally he was still.

We stayed like this for a moment, trying to catch our breaths.

My skin was slick with sweat when we finally parted. Like last night, I pulled on my knickers and my jumper and Fred pulled on his boxers after he'd cleaned up.

I curled up on my side, so that I faced the center of the bed. An uneasy feeling was brewing somewhere in my stomach and I knew I couldn't keep avoiding it.

"We should probably talk," I said as he lay down next to me, on his side and facing me.

He frowned slightly. "About what?"

"We keep…well…" My cheeks were burning.

Fred raised his eyebrows, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. "Having sex?"

"Yes. That."

"Okay." He paused, seeming confused. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No, it's not that, it's just—" I paused, searching for the words. "It's just…we've done it twice now—"

"Three more and you'll win a free t-shirt."

I smacked him on his chest. "Stop it, I'm being serious."

"All right, I'm sorry." He grinned at me before letting his face settle into a serious expression that was only twenty percent exaggerated. Which with Fred was probably as good as you could get in most circumstances. "Go on. I'm listening."

"It's just…I dunno, the kissing was one thing, but this seems like we're…tempting fate somehow if we don't talk about…whatever this is."

He frowned. "Is it all that different than what we were doing before?"

"I mean…we weren't having sex before."

"But it was still a friends with benefits sort of thing, wasn't it?" he said. "The scope of the activity changed is all."

"Right, but I think you and I both know that sex and snogging are two very different activities. You can't pretend that they operate by the same rules."

He frowned. "So, wait, why exactly are you upset?"

I sighed, burying my face in the pillow. "I'm not upset, I just—I don't know what I am. I just feel like we should talk about it or it's all going to go horribly wrong."

"All right. Let's look at it like this." He waited until I lifted my head from the pillow to look at him. "Do you like having sex with me?"

I was well past the point where I could plausibly deny that, but I still felt strange admitting it. "I mean…yes, I think that's fairly clear at this point."

To his credit, he resisted smirking.

"All right, so if I also enjoy it—which I do—then what's the problem if we're doing something we both enjoy and something that we've agreed doesn't mean anything serious?"

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. He wasn't getting it and I didn't know how to make him understand. "You're pretending it's simpler than it is."

"How?"

I gaped at him for a moment, trying to sort out how to answer his question. The reality was that I didn't fully believe that you could just decide not to feel something, as Fred posited. But the thing was, I couldn't just say that to him because it was only relevant if I was feeling something or if he was feeling something, which we clearly weren't. There was no reason for me to bring that up and bringing it up would likely imply something that I didn't want to imply and complicate things even further. So maybe he was right, maybe I was worrying about nothing. But then why did I feel so uneasy? Why was there a lump in my throat?

"Forget it," I said, rolling over onto my back.

"Charlotte…"

"No, you're right, I'm probably overthinking it," I said.

"Well, now I know something's wrong. You never admit I'm right that easily." I felt the bed shift and then he was positioning himself on top of me, so that I couldn't help but look at him.

"Fred…"

"I'm not moving until we sort this out," he said and for once he looked serious.

I gave an exasperated sigh and pressed my palms against my face. "Look, I know it doesn't make sense, but I just…I don't want either one of us getting hurt."

"Charlotte." He waited until I removed my hands from my face. "That's not going to happen."

"You can't say that," I said. "People hurt each other unintentionally all the time."

"Well, even if that was the case, it wouldn't be because we've had sex. It's far more likely that it would be because I said something stupid and I regret to inform you that I'm probably going to say stupid things regardless of whether or not we're having sex."

I couldn't help it: a slight smile twitched my lips upward.

He grinned. "Knew you wouldn't be able to resist that one."

I sighed and swatted at him. "Shut up."

He caught both of my hands in his, grinning cheekily. "Seriously, though." His gaze turned gentle. "We're going to be fine, Lewis. I won't settle for any less."

I pressed my lips together. I wanted to believe him. Truly, I did.

"And besides," he continued, absently brushing a lock of hair behind my ear, "with everything happening…" He swallowed, letting that implication hang in the air. "We might as well enjoy life while we can, you know?"

It wasn't a very good argument. None of it was—I can see that now. The trouble was, there was still so much that I didn't know, so much that I didn't understand. Probably, the combination of endorphins and hormones wasn't doing any favors for my reasoning and decision making, either.

And the thing is…deep down, I wanted to believe what he was saying.

"Are we okay?" he asked, carefully. His smile was hesitant, hopeful.

I nodded. "I think so."

In retrospect, though, we weren't—not really. I was telling him what he wanted to hear—and what I thought I believed.