"I said, 'Honey, I don't feel so good, don't feel justified
Come on put a little love here in my void,' - he said
'It's all in your head,' and I said, 'So's everything' -
But he didn't get it…"
Chapter Seven: Just a Little Boy
- Seventh Year -
We all have our breaking points. The brink we reach when we're just about to crack. Crumble. Confess.
I think I'm closing in on mine…
- - -
I'm wading through mud. Traveling through what was once grass. Out to the Quidditch pitch. Squish. Squish. My feet embedded in the earth. Staining my shoes brown. My robes skate over the dirty floor. Dragging the path along with me.
We're practicing again. Thank Merlin I'm the bloody captain. It's one more thing to take my mind of it. Him.
I've become a walking cliché. And I berate myself over that.
The team stands there. Waiting for me. I tell them to fly a few laps, and hover underneath them all.
I watch him fly through the air, robes reaching out behind him, a canopy in the sky. And he floats and he dances, weaving above me. And I want him to fall. Come back down to earth. Prove that he too can be broken. In half. Into pieces. Prove that he's not made of stone, and when hit just the right way, he too will shatter.
He just keeps on flying.
Time flies and the sun falls down. Dusk swallows the pitch and I reluctantly send them in. My heart's not in it anyway.
He walks away. Laughing. Tossing his head back. And I wish I knew what was so funny. I wish I was right there next to him. But I'm not. I'm here.
I let myself fall onto the bench. Staring at my mud covered shoes and robes. I'm a fucking spectacle.
I can't keep doing this. Tearing myself up every time I see him. Letting my mind wander into forbidden territories.
I feel like I'm breaking.
I place my fingers over my eyes. Covering them. Hiding behind them. Gazing out through the cracks. Imagining I can fill them in. With his magic marker.
I round my back and let my shoulders slump, curling right over. Face still buried in my palms.
It's too much. Too fucking much for me to handle.
- - -
"Shit, Ange…" He's murmuring in my ear, breath splaying across the skin. Fogging up my brain. Hands digging in my hips, anchoring me in place. I'm not going anywhere. I won't drift off to sea... And I'm clawing and I'm scratching, digging dull nails beneath the skin. Marking him as mine. Even if it's only temporary.
It's late. We're in my bed. Curtains are sealed shut, a silencing spell envelopes the bed. The mattress squeaking. Making this all the more sordid for me. Head sinking in pillow. Emotions threatening to strangle me.
I'm living a lie.
All I can think as he grunts and he thrusts, into and out of me, are of the others. The girls he'll go and fuck once he's through with me. And how he'll return to me for more. Because, as he told me once, "we have the best bloody sex ever."
How romantic.
I can't pay attention, attention to him, his actions, his voice. I'm tangled up with him and my thoughts and my fears and anguishes that are battling to phase him out.
Get in the moment. He's fucking you. He's in you. Get in the fucking moment.
I make the mistake of looking at his face. And then promptly wish to die.
Cheeks flushed to match his hair. Sweat glistening on his brow. Mouth open, panting. Eyes on me. All on me. Just me.
And I want him and need him and can't have him but I have to and I want need love…Love.
Just love me. Don't fuck me. Love me. Love me love me love me love me love me love me love me. Words beating through my head to the cadence of his hips. Love me.
Those eyes. Blue. Glistening. Sparkling. Locked deep within my own. And I can't take it anymore. Those eyes. He sees me. He sees me. I see him. I can't can't can't can't. Not anymore.
It's harder and faster. Louder. Creaking mattress deafening in my skull.
I can't breathe can't think can't move can't breathe and it's too much and it hurts hurts me…I can't…
And I'm there and I'm falling and spiraling my way out of control.
"I love…"I freeze mid-moan. Horror-struck by what was about to be said. "This."
I want to hang my head in shame. But he's still on top of me.
Bloody coward.
- - -
I pace my room. Traveling the same route over and over and over again. To the door. And to the window. Door window door window. Imagining I'm burning a hole through the rug and scorching the floor beneath.
Cheeks are burning, fists are clenched. Nails making half-moon designs in the palm of my hand. They sting.
I'm seeing red. Spitting bullets. Bubbling over with a rage that's proving difficult to suppress.
I don't think I've ever hated someone this much.
Umbridge. That fucking waste of a woman. Her and her stupid "High Inquisitor" bullshit. Fuck her. Fuck the Ministry. Fuck him.
The shit hit the fan today on the Quidditch pitch.
Malfoy had to go attack the Weasley clan. He couldn't keep his bloody mouth shut. And they couldn't control their fucking tempers.
I tried to restrain him. Alicia and Katie had to help. He's scary when he's angry. He's scary when he's serious. His mouth sets into this impregnable firm line. His eyes glint, his face pales, freckles more noticeable than ever; his nostrils flare. He's a bull ready to charge. I came close to being run down.
Harry, George and Fred are off the team. For good.
Now not only are we royally screwed when it comes to the actually playing of the sport, but any desire I had to be captain, to be Chaser, to fly over the field has been extinguished.
I can't do it without him. I can't do it without him flying there next to me. Making goofy faces. Running into things on purpose. Flipping off the Slytherins. Tightening his jaw, face falling into a frown as he lets the bat slam into the Bludger. Screaming when we win.
It's our last year. And we can't even finish it together.
I don't know who I'm angrier at. Umbridge. Malfoy. Or him.
- - -
I don't go down to dinner. I made the mistake of entering the Common Room and had to hear all their pleas of sympathy. It was like a fucking wake. Apparently losing almost half your team to a blatantly unfair totalitarian authority figure makes you a charity case.
Fifteen minutes of that was enough for me. I don't think I could make it through dinner.
Besides. He'd be there. And at this point I'm torn between love and hate.
- - -
I lie on my bed. Studying. Or trying to. Damn N.E.W.T.'s.
There's a knock at the door. I'm alone. And rise to answer it. Not sure what happened to my roommates. I make my way to the door. Stepping over day-old robes and fashion magazines. Pictures still in motion. The girls winking and grinning up at me. I deliberately step on one.
I turn the knob. It's him.
"Hey…" He says it softly. Afraid he may disturb me. Offend me somehow. Set me off like the firecracker he knows I can be. Reminds me of the zoo. How you have to be careful around the bears. Tip-toe. Quietly. Voices low.
And I just nod.
"I'm sorry."
He's apologizing. If there's one thing Fred Weasley doesn't believe in, it's an apology. He never says he's sorry. Even when it's his own fault.
I look at him. And believe him, wondering how I merited these words from him. And I'm not sure what to say. I've never seen him look so sorry.
I never want to see him look this sorry again.
"Okay." He smiles. Apology accepted.
His smile widens into a wicked grin. "Let's go raid the kitchen."
- - -
We're wandering back. Back to the Gryffindor Tower. Back, back, back. Clip-clop. Our shoes are noisy. Really noisy. And funny sounding. Clip-clop. We sound like ponies.
We found some fire-whiskey in the kitchen. I think it's safe to say I had a little too much.
I basically can't walk straight and everything is spinning around me like a crazy carousel. But he's next to me. So we can stay on for a little bit longer.
I can feel the liquor coursing through my veins. Burning me the way he does. Leaving fire in its path. My head is swimming and sometimes I see spots. I am so bloody drunk. And I don't care. I don't care I don't care I don't care.
And then my shoulder is met by the wall. And it hurts a little. I hear someone laughing. And feel that someone grabbing my arm. He drags me over, saying something. I'm distracted by that mouth of his though.
Then I'm sitting on stone steps. And they're cold. Making my ass numb. I see him sit down too. Down on the stone stairs. With him, they become a royal throne. And I have no plans to abdicate.
I don't remember walking out here. I hiccup. And giggle. Still clutching the bottle as though it's my anchor. Buoying me in place.
I hear a snort next to me. I turn my head too fast and there are so many of him. It's like looking through those kaleidoscope thingies. I had one as a kid. Mine showed blue and red sparkles and hearts. It was the kind of thing I'd call "magical" having no concept whatsoever as to what magic actually is.
And he's there. A little blurry along the edges. But next to me. Shaking his head. Amused. And so perfect. The moonlight makes him glow and causes me to shiver.
I have to tell him. Now or never. I have to. Even though my brain has been turned to mush. He has to know. What's the worst that can happen?
I down another gulp. Letting it burn its way down my throat. They call it courage…kid.
I place my hand on his arm. "Fred." My voice sounds unnaturally loud. Even to my ears. "Fred. Fred Fred Fred Fred Fre-e-e-ed." I've got this sing-song thing going on. And I don't know what I'm saying. I do know that he looks like he is about to crack up. That smile of his is trying to take over the world. Or at least his face. "Fred. I must tell you something. Something so-o-o-o-o important." I take a deep breath. The breath before the plunge. Why am I doing this again?
"I love you."
I've said it.
"I love you I love you I love you-u-u-u!" And then we're both quiet. Too quiet. Me with the expectant gleam in my eye. And him looking…terrified. And shocked. And scared. And terrified. I think I already said that.
All I hear is me. Breathing.
This really wasn't how I thought this would turn out…How did I think this would turn out?
Oh fuck. Shit. Bloody hell. Oh, Merlin, Jesus, Buddha, God…somebody save me!
Why isn't he talking? Fred Weasley is never without words. He should be talking. Filling the tense air with words. Any kind of words. Just words. Words to drown out the thunderous beating of my heart.
He's not going to say anything. He's really not going to say anything. At all.
I feel a hysterical bubble catch inside my throat. And I just start laughing. Not stopping to breathe. Mouth wide open. Crazy laughter retching its way out of me. Tears are streaming down my face. And I know they're not from joy.
I steal a glance at him. He's still wearing that fearful expression. But at the same time he's looking at me as though I've sprouted eight heads. And told him I'm really an alien. I should have told him that instead. It probably would have gone over better. Anything would have gone over better.
So this is it. The worst. I think I've found the very worst that could happen.
And promptly puke on his shoes.
- - -
"I thought he was a man
But he was just a little boy…"
- - -
A/N: Song lyrics from Paper Bag- Fiona Apple
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