There was a time when space was still an empirical fact. You could point at it. It had a size and edges. It could be measured; space spoke volumes. Back then, spatial inhabitation resonated with oneself, spatial division with the other. There and then, his body had had a particular place of remoteness. Far enough for his red hair and large figure to remain outside of her periphery. Not quite out of reach but rather a cold detachment, lacking even the slightest agitative motion. Space, a form of inertia in between their bodies, both unmoved.
For a long time, Fred Weasley had been but a part of the décor of her life; almost invisible, she had endured his presence without knowing she was, in fact, enduring it. Only occasionally, his rowdiness asked for platform. Most of the time, however, her attention was diverted elsewhere.
But there emerged resistance. Their bodies kept colliding in the space between them. His figure became unbearable; he rubbed her wrong. No warmth, but a heat of hatred arose with the turbulent motions of friction when she felt him trespass the walls her limbs had erected to keep him out. Space compressed. At their intersection, her 'here' had become his 'here' and she felt divided in this expansion.
There was attraction.
No matter how repulsed they felt, they kept rotating around and around and around.