If only I don't bend and break
I'll meet you on the other side
I'll meet you in the light
If only I don't suffocate
I'll meet you in the morning when you wake
-Keane, Bend & Break.
iii.
Third year brought a cold September, and then a colder December; icicles on the ancient window panes of Gryffindor Tower froze in a beautiful pattern that resembled the one on Angelina's best dress robe. The warmest place in the entire tower was sitting in one of the two over-stuffed chairs by the fire, usually roaring, and sinking deeply into the soft pillows that smelled of ash and chestnuts.
Angelina was in horribly sick on Christmas Eve, which found her in the Infirmary, bundled in blankets and grimacing miserably at a vial of potion Madame Pomfrey had left her.
She frowned down at the blankets bunched in her fists, the stark white like a cloud under her dark, shaking palm. Finding it extremely unfair that Katie, Alicia, Fred, George and Lee were probably gathered around the fire, laughing and exchanging chocolate frogs, she pushed the covers off and timidly slid off the bed until her cold feet touched the colder stone floor.
Wrapping her arms around herself and pulling her white robe closer, she walked to the glass window and leaned against the frame, staring out into the raging blizzard. She could vaguely make out Hagrid's hut and a small glow from inside-- probably a fire, the lucky sod.
The white flakes whirled and danced the way a prince would twirl a princess under his arm, spinning and spinning, bright and beautiful against a sky the colour of ink, dark and deep. She thought of her friends up in Gryffindor tower, and wondered if the firelight was dancing on Fred's hair, just as crimson but never as beautiful. She also wondered if the fire was throwing the curves of Alicia's face into soft relief-- would she smile at Fred with her beautiful smile and touch his arm? And then he would blush, make a joke along the lines of why Ms. Spinnet, I had no idea you felt this way about me and they'd stare into each others eyes, and--
A sharp poke in her side brought her from her bitter reverie and spinning around to see who else was in the ward with her.
She came face to face with the one she had just been thinking about; that gentle smile on his face was not directed at Alicia, but at her, and she had never felt more relieved.
"Did I frighten you, Angie?" He asked, his grin holding a little mischief. He had grown, maybe an inch over the summer, and his face was no longer so frail-- there were newfound angles in his jawline and nose, his cheekbones and the curve of his neck. Angelina couldn't wait to explore these new developments with her eyes.
"Yes, you daft git," she laughed, punching him in the arm. She noticed he was holding a plate of Yorkshire pudding, and she even felt her eyes light up. "But you came to see me-- with pudding..."
"It's Christmas Eve," he murmured, making himself comfortable on the floor beside the window. He grinned up at her. That smile. "Be a pet and grab that blanket?"
She blushed at the word 'pet' and glared at him, but fetched the blanket anyway. Bundling it in her arms, she sniffled, "What now?"
He patted the ground beside him, not looking up from his work of unwrapping the pudding. His pink tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth and his fingers were beginning to smear with the cream. She grinned.
"I'm sick, I hope you know," she said, sitting close (but not too close) beside him, and throwing the blanket over them both. They were leaning with their backs against the window and it was so cold that the glass froze to her, sending a pain right down to her bones. She cried out softly.
"Obviously--oh, cor blimey, Angelina, I'm so sorry!" He pulled her forward and slipped his arm around her shoulder. She had her eyes closed and was coughing, but she could feel his lean arm tight around her and it immediately comforted her, a ribbon of warmth and fireworks along every inch that he touched her. His breath was stirring her hair. "I forgot that these windows are bloody-- here, lean against me." No objections there.
She laughed and nestled her head in the juncture of his neck and shoulder, sniffling. "You planned this, didn't you Weasely?"
"Oh, belt up Johnson," he grinned, taking the spoon out and dipping it in the pudding. It smelled heavenly, and reminded her of Christmas at her house, warm at the dinner table, laughing with her mother, trying to ignore her snotty sister. But she knew that the next time she smelled this dessert, it would remind her of this moment and nothing else.
"Where'd you get it?"
"Nicked it from the kitchens, the elves down there are loads helpful. I was bored, and I said to meself, Why not visit your best friend Angie while she's sick on this stormy night? And so I did. With this pudding, because I know you're hungry."
She stayed silent at this, taking in his words and reveling in the feel of his hand running up and down her arm soothingly, easing the warmth back into her. He smelled of soap and wool from his sweater. From her position she could only see his slim hands, freckled and bony around the knuckles. His nails were bitten. Blood was gathering underneath the nail on his third finger. She briefly wondered how that had happened.
"Such a gentleman," she murmured sleepily. She felt him shift and looked up at him. Their faces were very close, she realized, excruciatingly so. She looked away, and then down at the bowl of pudding. She grinned.
Dipping her finger in the bowl, she brought it to her lips, sticky and sweet, suckling at it. She looked up again to see Fred gazing at her with an intense dark gaze, his lips open slightly. He had never looked so beautiful, and Angelina couldn't handle it. Removing the finger from her mouth with a loud smack, she dipped her finger in the pudding again. She sat up and raised it to his lips, his heavily lidded eyes following her finger.
She saw his pink tongue dart out, and then, success! The goo was smeared on his cheeks and across his nose. He looked positively adorable, and immediately the thick tension was gone from the room.
His face broke out into a surprised grin, and he flung the spoon full of pudding into Angelina's hair. She shrieked and lept up, grabbing a fist full of pudding and plopping it into his hair.
And so the fight began; it was a flash of laughter and sweets, all over her skin, her robe, her hair. At one point Fred shouted, "Angelina Johnson is bollocks," which they both knew was a lie, but irked her either way. It ended with her grabbing him around the shoulders and pulling him to the floor with him. She rolled over on top of him and pinned his arms to his sides with his knees.
He was covered in pudding, smeared in his flame hair, covering his freckles, staining his white t-shirt. His eyes were the brightest thing in the dark infirmary, blue and big and laughing. He was laughing. She twisted his nipple, and laughed at the yelp that made its way out of his mouth.
"Admit defeat, Fred Weasely."
"I do," he said, gasping at the pain.
"Tell me I'm the best,"
"You're bloody amazing,"
"Don't resist me, Fred,"
"Never,never resist you, blasted--"
She let go of him, and grinned. "Did I hurt you?" His eyes had gone dark with pain and his pale cheeks were flushed scarlet. She leaned forward and her dark thick hair fell around them like a curtain. "I'm sorry."
There was a tense silence in which his beautiful eyes searched hers. Her heart beat against her rib-cage rapidly, she was sure he could hear it, and her palms on either side of his head were clammy and his breath was fanning across her lips, sweet like the pudding and minty like the toothpaste he had just brushed his teeth with.
"I'm okay--" he murmured, looking away briefly and then his eyes flicked back to hers, a puzzle piece sliding into place. "Angelina...I---"
But he was interrupted by the bewildered voice of Madame Pomfrey. "Just what... in Merlins name...is happening here?"
Angelina blushed furiously and scrambled off the boy, pulling her robe tighter around her. "Nothing---I was alone, b-but it's Christmas Eve and Fred...w-welll he brought me pudding, I'm sorry about the mess, I'll--"
"It's my fault, Madame Pomfrey," Fred interrupted, his voice hoarse. He was dusting his trousers from floor dust, and looking for all the world like a fallen angel. "I missed Angelina and I came down to bring her pudding. I'll clean up the mess, and see the headmaster, if you want."
Angelina knew this trick. Offer to see the headmaster and they'd never send him to see his head of house, the very strict Professor McGonagall.
The nurse looked on the verge of tears. "Oh...you children," she murmured and pointed at the messy floor with her wand. A quick scourgify later and they were clean as well. "It's Christmas Eve, I can't hold it against you. You should be fine, Angelina, just take the potion with you and take it in the morning and---well, you know the routine." She bustled around the room and put the potion into a little pouch and tied it. Angelina looked at Fred bewilderedly. He just grinned.
"Just go." She waved them away. They walked quickly towards the exit. "Oh, and Happy Christmas!" She called, waving lightly.
"Happy Christmas Madame Pomfrey," Fred smiled, and disappeared out the door. Angelina lingered.
"Thank you," she said.
The older witch just smiled sadly. "To be young again," she murmured.
Angelina met Fred outside, smiling and pinching his arm. "That was a nice bit of smooth talking on your part, Weasely."
They walked in silence back to Gryffindor Tower. Angelina's bare feet were cold against the old stone, and as they walked through the dark halls the firelight threw Fred's profile in and out of sharp relief periodically. She smiled, and kept walking.
Upon reaching the portrait of the Fat Lady, Fred let her go in first. She mock-curtsied, rolling her eyes, and went in with Fred smirking behind her. She stood at the bottom of the stairs to the girls' dormitory, her hand on the wall and the other holding his.
"Thank you," she said.
He smiled sleepily at her, his soft hair mussed and his freckles lost in the darkness of the tower. His thumb was rubbing soft circles on her knuckles. She wondered what he was thinking about, but as his eyes searched hers again she remembered the moment before Madame Pomfrey interrupted them. She looked down.
"I'm sorry I, er, twisted your nipple."
He grinned. "No harm done,"
Boldly, she bent down and brushed her lips against his chest where his nipple was, the hard bud damp and foreign through his thin white shirt. Straightened up and looked at him, smiling mischievously. His eyes were wide and surprised, but a smile was dancing near the corner of his lips, where that tantalizing dimple still stood.
"Did I make it better?" She whispered, smiling lazily.
He licked his lips, and grinned. "In that case," he murmured, moving closer, "can I show you this horrible bruise I have on my--"
She brushed past him, laughing softly. "Night, Weasely. Happy Christmas." She tossed from the top of the stairs. Silence, then--
"Happy Christmas, Angelina." She could hear the smile in his beautiful voice.