Series: 23 for 23
Title: Twenty-Two: The Girl Without the Tattoo
Author: Jmaria
Rating: FR-15
Disclaimer: I own the World Walker, JK owns All.
Spoilers: AU verse. Events of book 7 did not happen.
Series Summary: Twenty-three stories and crossings of worlds (read: insanity) to celebrate twenty-three years.
Part Summary: Meeting at the Quidditch Match.
Words: 698
A/N: First quote comes from the fifth into, second comes from Crazy by Gnarls Barkley.
This story changed three times. I saved the other versions for future use.

23 for 23
Twenty-Two: The Girl Without the Tattoo

There was no great bang. There was some semblance of peace and the worlds, words and faces flowed through her mind.

But think twice, that's my only advice.

The stadium was packed with rabid Quidditch fans eager to watch the match between the Harpies and the Falcons. Fred Weasley could barely find a seat for himself. It was a damned good thing the twin wasn't with him. Of course, that idiot was down near the Harpies box fawning over his fiancé Alicia. He plopped down in the empty bench, trying not to be bitter that his twin had abandoned him.

"Are you kidding me?" the woman beside him muttered. "Try hitting the damned bludger like a man!"

Fred smirked at the shake of her head. She hunched forwards, acting as if she had some personal stake in the game. Like everyone had back in school. Her dark hair fluttered forward as she huffed in frustration.

"Enjoying the match?"

"I'd enjoy it better in Smythe got his head out of his arse and grew a bloody pair of balls!" She snapped. "You'd think he'd never hit a damned bludger before. He's a beater for Merlin's sake! Act like it!"

Her spine stiffened suddenly, and she glanced over at him through the dark sweep of hair. Fred grinned at her cheekily, enjoying having gotten her off guard. She narrowed her eyes and quickly snapped her head back to the game.

"Bloody Flint should've known better than to trust a damned Ravenclaw to the position of Beater."

"It's a time honored tradition to beat sense into Beaters the hard way," Fred leaned closer, to be heard over the groaning/cheering of the crowds. "Besides, he's never had much sense anyway."

"Flint or Smythe?"

"Never knew Smythe, so I can't speak on that, now can I?" Fred glanced up at the twitchy Beater. "He'll be a bloody mess by the end of the match."

"If he makes it," she snorted.

"I'm -"

"I know who you are," she cut him off, her dark eyes sparing him a glance again. "And seeing as the other one's down there pacing like an expectant father, I even know which one you are."

"Then you're a step ahead of me," He chuckled.

"Of course, your reputation precedes you," she muttered.

"I shudder at the thought," Fred glanced down at her dark green jumper. He added it to the fact that she favored the Falcons. "Let me guess, 'red-hair and hand-me down robes'?"

A deep throated chuckle escaped her lips as she glanced up at him. Fred grinned at the response. Just because she'd once been a Slytherin didn't mean he couldn't flirt with her. Part of him enjoyed that fact a bit too much.

"I believe Malfoy phrased it differently when it came to you and the twin. Something to do with dragonhide suits? 'Bastards wearing it like it's the next superfine' ?" She grinned at him, her eyes darting back to the pitch. "Dammit, Smythe, your arse is crisped the next time I see you."

"You've got an awful hate on the poor lad," Fred remarked. She was more involved than the rest of the fans around them.

"Seeing as he's takin' my spot, you're damned right I'm hating on him hard," she muttered, a flash of a white cast on her left wrist caught his eyes.

"Ahh, explains so much," Fred nodded.

"You don't know who I am, do you?" she tore her attention away from the match for a full minute, which was saying quite a lot about her.

"You're a beater for the Falcons, you used to be a Slytherin, you're a contemporary of Malfoy's and you hate that Smythe is god-awful as a beater," Fred hazarded a guess.

"Classmate," she turned back to the game. "I was in his year."

"Still doesn't give me a name," he leaned closer.

"You never asked for one."

"Consider yourself asked then."

She narrowed her eyes at him, studying him intently for a few moments. The crowds around them cheered as the Quaffle went through the goal. Which goal, neither could be bothered to pay attention to guess.

"That line work often for you?"

"Dunno, never had to use it before."

"Bulstrode," she answered. "Millicent Bulstrode."

"Now that that's settled, whaddya say to a pint after the match, Millie?"

"I'd say you're damned presumptuous."