Lemon Grass and Sleep

A SPILL OF WORDS

My quill drooped over my potions homework as I let out a soft sigh, hunching my shoulders over the small desk. The Room of Requirement still acted as an old friend, returning to its tea parlor form whenever I needed a quiet place to study. Rather than the large mirrored room of the DA, I had been greeted by its original form of a small room with a desk in the corner.

Soft sleet pittered outside and I had pushed the window pane open to let the calming noise in, mixing with the crackling fire to produce a cozy atmosphere. I leaned over the edge of the windowsill, resting my elbows on the wooden frame as I glanced down to the fields below. Fred would be at the quidditch pitch right now, he'd been all excited since Umbridge had barely been convinced to let Gryffindor resume practice. I wonder if he was still enjoying himself with the cold rain beating down on the quidditch field right about now.

"Everything is terrible," I heard from behind me, a sudden noise of shuffling and rustling accompanying Fred as he stomped into the room soggily.

He'd clearly been soaked head to toe, still wearing his sodden quidditch uniform despite the fact it was typically not allowed.

"Not everything is terrible," I comforted, "The first match is coming up, you've got to practice as much as possible."

"Right, but I wish the weather would agree with us."

"Was practice good, at least?"

"No," he grumbled, peeling off his wet clothes and beginning to change into his dry robes. "Everyone was miserable because of the damp, it seems like our practices are cursed."

"Oh," I whispered, swallowing thickly as I watched Fred's stomach flex as his shirt struggled to come over his head. I tore my eyes away, feeling my cheeks heat up out of shame for looking so disrespectfully.

"What's with that face?" Fred laughed, "You look like you've eaten a lemon."

"Nothing," I muttered, tapping the nib of my quill against the parchment, leaving tiny little dots of ink to collect along the fibers. I couldn't help but clear my throat, readjusting to face the window as I tried to focus on my studies.

"Really?" I flinched, feeling Fred's weight lean onto the back of the chair. His hands gripped the edge of the desk as he leaned over me, the heat coming off his body making my head feel even hotter.

"Mhm," I strained, clenching my jaw. "You should sit by the fire, you'll catch a cold."

"Wizards don't catch colds," he mumbled, leaning down and pressing a kiss against the top of my head. "Except you, you're special."

"Am I?" I breathed out, closing my eyes as I felt Fred's lips drift down my neck.

"So special," he whispered.

"I have a feeling we aren't talking about colds anymore," I murmured.

"You'll come to the game, won't you?" Fred changed the subject suddenly, his lips still brushing against my skin and sending shivers down my spine.

"Of course."

It was damp. More than damp, it was cold. Fred had been right, the weather actively hated quidditch this year, it seemed. Perhaps Umbridge had gathered nature under her sprawling control as well. Frigid mist hung int he air and collected every so often to turn into a light drizzle, making sure the students were never too warm or too dry.

And so there I was, sitting in the quidditch bleachers with my coat wrapped around me tightly. Throughout all my years at Hogwarts, I can safely say I'd never made attending quidditch games a habit. There was always something more important to do--but of course, one of the few games I do attend ends with my boyfriend getting a lifelong ban from quidditch. Given to him by the High Inquisitor herself, of course.