Fern closed her eyes a moment, fantasizing that she wasn't this easy to seduce. In her head, Fred's lips weren't slowly moving against her shoulder as he pulled her shirt back up. And she'd left as soon as she'd slapped him.

He was evil for being this gentle with her after fucking her against the table. It was cruel to give her any inclination that this wasn't just about sex. He hated her. And she hated him right back.

"I'll do whatever I want," she whispered, pathetically, despite knowing that he could ask her to chop her own hand off at this moment, and she'd consider it before saying no.

He rested his forehead against her shoulder. "I know."

His arms circled her slowly, pulling her back against his chest. It struck her how lovely it felt to be held. She tried to remember the last time someone hugged her with no motivation. Fred had already got what he wanted, and yet his fingers fanned across her stomach to pull her flush with his body. She gave in. She would eventually look back on this as a moment of weakness but it couldn't be helped. Leaning against his chest she closed her eyes and felt the fight with Neville, the inevitability of death and violence, and Fred's words that hurt, no matter how much she told herself they didn't.

"I just….don't know what I want," she said, her voice hitching a bit.

"I know…"

She turned slowly to face him. His face dropped instantly when he saw a rogue tear escape the corner of her eye.

"Fern…" his voice dropped an octave with concern.

"He's going to die," she wept. "And there isn't anything I can do."

She meant to flee and cry in private but Fred pulled her back into a soft and lazy hug. The kind that is inevitable and warm.

Anyone else would've comforted her or apologized but not Fred. He only held her and rubbed small circles between her shoulder blades. He gave no explanation or words of sympathy because there weren't any. They were on opposite ends of ideation about war and as stupid as he was…as they all were….they were right. She was a coward. But she was willing to be called much worse to save her brother. Even if he didn't want to be saved.

She wiped her tears on his shirt and tried not to feel embarrassed. Fred stared down at her with a deep frown and sad eyes as she pulled away. She would have preferred his smug, condescending smirk. It was easier to hate him that way.

"There is a way," he said as she took a step back from him. "You know there is."

She closed her eyes tight and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm not joining Potter's suicide mission."

"It's not just him, Fern. It's Neville and other people too. People that you care about."

She cringed at his words. At the mere idea that she cared for others, or that they could care for her.

Her face grew hot and she began to resent how much power she'd relinquished to him.

He had all the power. He could pick her up, throw her around, yell over her, and brand her with his DNA. It was the game they were playing. Trading off playing some sort of omnipotent god, lording over the other. She hated how well they fit together. How well they knew the other's weaknesses. So she took a bit of power back, the only way she knew how.

"Like who," she questioned harshly. "You?"

Fred avoided her eyes then, bobbing his head a few times before staring at his feet. He gave the floor a weak smile and took a few deep breaths before answering.

"Nah, 'course not."

She waited for him to continue. Begged him to, in her head. She waited for the next part, where he laughed at her for letting him fuck her, or revealed his brother from behind a desk, laughing his head off. She waited for his joker mask to slip back on but he kept the wounded look on his face and lifted his hand towards her face.

She flinched and he slowed his hand, waiting for her for permission. She watched his fingers reach out and delicately tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. Her stomach flip-flopped.

"Walk to dinner with me," he said.

She could have punched him. She wanted to fucking punch him. Being the cruel one normally filled her with pride and allowed her shields to stay sharp against the world. Fred did the same with his jokes. But all she felt now, was a pit of resentment deepening in her chest and a hatred far too deep and mysterious to analyze without falling in and finding something new. She waded back to the shore where she'd always sat and dug her heels into the sand.

She smiled. "You're funny."

There was no chuckle or laugh from him as the words left her lips. She didn't think there would be. He let his hand drop back to his side and took a step towards the exit.

"Alright," he said.

She could've done worse – made him feel worse. But he disappeared through the door before she could.

Fern closed her eyes and tried not to regret biting the hand that had offered her affection.

For weeks after, she'd turn a corner and see red and gold ties flee from her presence. It didn't matter if they had red hair or not, they scurried from her like fish afraid of a shark on the hunt.

But she wasn't hunting. Not even for Neville. She merely floated from class to class, nodding to friends, biting her tongue, and overthinking everything.

Homework and Prefect duties were difficult to focus on when war loomed, imaginary or not. She watched as rules went up, and Umbridge handed out punishments like candy on Halloween.

She looked for Fred everywhere, hoping for a sneer or wink or any indication that they'd returned to normal. But he evaded her more successfully than anyone else.

His words from that day in the abandoned classroom rang in her head, over and over.

I'd hate you if I could.

I love how you feel.

As pathetic as it was, those were some of the nicest things a romantic – a sexual partner had ever said to her. And now she'd screwed it up.

Even as she boarded the train to go home for the Christmas holiday, her head was on a swivel. She looked around every corner, and in every train car but there wasn't a single redhead anywhere. Defeated, and tired, she eventually found an empty car and slept the entire way back to London.

During the car ride home, Gran talked on and on about the neighbors' disruptive antics and how she had been slaving over their meal. Neville stayed silent in the back seat, wringing his hands and occasionally remembering to nod politely. She shot him an inquisitive look in the rearview mirror but he avoided her gaze.

Even at home, he scurried around and hardly made a peep and it wasn't until Boxing day that Fern finally cornered him.

"What's wrong with you," she demanded.

He made a surprised squeak and looked over her head and past his bedroom door frame, clearly looking for an escape.

"Neville," she said again, fully blocking the frame. "We've been home for four days and you haven't said a word to me. I already apologized for yelling, can we please just forget about it?"

He bit his lip and stared at his shoes.

"Hello?"

Finally, he looked up. He sniffled heavily and rubbed his red, and watery eyes.

"Nev," she whispered, kneeling next to where he sat on the bed and taking his hands. "I am sorry…I didn't mean to….to hurt you."

"It's not that," he cried softly. "Something's happened."

Her heart dropped but she nodded and let him continue.

"Mr. Weasley…he was attacked."

The words plunged into her chest like knives. Before he could elaborate, she spun the image of the Weasleys visiting their vegetable father, just like her and Neville in St. Mungos.

"By Voldemort."

Her eyes darted to his, shocked and wide. He'd never said that name before. Not once.

The syllables twisted the knife deeper but the solemn, fearless look on his face drained the blood from her body entirely. It was the same look she saw in the pictures of their parents. She saw it in pictures of the Potter's too. Neville was sure of his place in all of this and she saw now that there was no changing his mind.

Her heart rate picked up.

"Is he alright?"

Neville didn't miss a beat. "He's alright. The letter said he was back home before Christmas."

He said it like it was a moment of triumph for them – a sign of resilience. But it didn't need to happen. And perhaps it wouldn't have if the Weasley's had simply stayed out of it. She bit her tongue and fled from the room in a tizzy of sadness and confusion but made it downstairs before hot tears started falling.

Soft footsteps passed the threshold but she didn't hear it in time to wipe the tears away. Gran put a hand on her shoulder and stared out at the gardens. They stood together, as they always had, in perpetual gloom. The faces of her parents stared at them from a wall nearby, eternally happy and unaware of their fate. Fern closed her eyes, unable to meet their cheerful gazes.

"How do you not hate them," she whispered. "For doing what they did?"

They leaned into each other, the old woman hardly coming up to Fern's shoulder.

Gran smiled at her through the reflection in the window. "Because I know who they did it for."

The tears flowed freely then. She knew that. She always had. That's why guilt gnawed at the corners of her mind where she kept memories of the family. Would they have felt so compelled to join the fight, if she and Neville had been born later, or not at all? Perhaps if they'd moved away or even just stopped reading the papers, they would've been safe. But fate had different plans.

Gran turned to her and left a delicate kiss on her cheek. "It's never too late to be what you might have been."

The old woman left her in silence and that is where she stayed. The whole train ride back to Hogwarts, and even though the first week of classes. She didn't feel particularly compelled to speak to anyone. Too many thoughts kept her tongue locked behind her clenched teeth. Daisy stared at her with worried eyes, and professors raised their eyebrows at her lack of contributions in class. Neville bit his lip raw, waiting for her next words. But she saved her voice. She saved it until their first Friday night back, when she knew she'd be stuck with Prefect duty. She wasn't sure he'd be there but something told her to go to the seventh floor and climb the stairs. So she did, and that's where she finally found Fred Weasley, smoking her hidden cigarettes in the Astronomy tower.

His back was turned to her but it was unmistakably him. She could tell by the curve of his nose, slightly less crooked than his brothers, and by the excess of wrinkles in his clothes, and almost comically messiness of his hair.

"Come to gloat," he asked, looking over his shoulder as she ascended the stairs.

Well, that confirmed her suspicion. He was angry with her. Perhaps because of the last conversation they had. Or because she'd interrupted his alone time. Or maybe because it was easiest. He couldn't be angry with his father, nor could he necessarily get his hands on Voldemort, she understood if she was the easiest target.

"No," she whispered.

He took a deep drag of the cigarette between his teeth. "You could though, you know. Sacrificing my family, remember?"

The words seemed to make him even angrier. He shook his head and turned towards her.

"Look, I don't have the energy for whatever it is that you want so…"

"No," she said quickly, cutting him off. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

He flicked the cigarette over the balcony and stalked towards her. A weary look crossed his face like he couldn't tell if it was really her or not as he loomed over her. Coming in close, he glanced between her eyes, over and over again.

"You have a fascinating way of treating people you don't care about," he said bitterly.

She closed the gap between them and pressed a hand against his chest, stopping whatever hurtful words he'd conjure up next. She deserved them but he could save it for a different day. A day when he wasn't hurting.

He froze slightly at her touch. The muscles in his chest tensed and twitched at the pressure, almost like a part of him wanted to run, while the other had forfeited to stay in place. His heartbeat was steady and warm beneath his sweater. She stared at the rough fabric between her fingers.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, avoiding his eyes. "About what I said that day. And about your dad. Neville told me he's going to be alright but I'm so so sorry."

She'd hoped to be more eloquent than that but at least she'd avoided crying in front of him this time. Her hand dropped from his chest and she stole a glance up at his face. His mouth twitched but other than that, he hardly acknowledged her words.

Before she could walk away, or open her mouth again, Fred leaned down and rested his forehead against her shoulder. He had to almost fold completely in half to do it but he seemed too exhausted by his own thoughts to hold his head up any longer.

"Do you want to know something funny?"

She nodded slowly, just moving enough for him to feel the motion, trying not to scare him away.

"It turns out, I'm the coward," he laughed. "I saw him in the hospital bed once, before he was conscious. It was only through a window and I froze. I ran straight back to the lobby and couldn't fucking look at him again until he was home and out of the wheelchair."

She swallowed thickly and brought her shaking fingers to the back of his neck. He sucked in a deep breath as she played with the soft tresses there.

It was odd to feel in the same place as someone she'd spent seven years at odds with. They'd shared the same desires and pleasure, but now they had the same wounds.

Without thinking, she placed a kiss on his temple and wrapped him in a harsh embrace. It was then that his labored breathing turned into sniffles. His knees gave out and they sunk to the ground in a tangled pile. Fred nuzzled into her chest, just as she had done before, and cried. She felt him cry for what happened to his father, and what was yet to happen. The people they'd all have to become to endure a war. And worse, the people they'd lose to win.

As the tears dried up and he lifted his head off of her, to sit without leaning against her with red-rimmed eyes, she decided that she wouldn't let him go through it alone. Not him. Or Neville.

"Fred," she whispered, looking up at him from her eyelashes. "I do have one other thing to tell you."

He wiped the tears from his face and looked up at her. Behind him, the moon created a pale halo around his head, adorned with stars and a few stray clouds.

"I don't hate you either," she said.

For a moment, he stared blankly. It almost looked like he was gazing through her, still unable to decipher if she was actually here or not. She slid her hand into his and gave up a weak smile. He snapped into reality and slowly but surely, the wide toothy grin that she'd once hated to see on his face made its joyful return. His freckled cheeks ballooned up towards his eyes. The sorrow floated away and she wished that it would always be this easy to make him smile.

He pulled her by the hand into his lap and finally let out a laugh. "No shit, Fern."