FLAMEOUT

Prologue

The first thing Fred Weasley was aware of, when he finally came to, was the horrible, splitting pain in his head, like someone had taken a hammer or a drill or some other such Muggle invention and smashed it into his skull. For a moment, he thought he was still trapped under that pile of rubble outside the Room of Requirement — frozen, unable to move, dying painfully slow as stone and debris crushed him.

But no — it had been seven years since then. And back then, his mouth didn't taste furry and rotten, like some rodent had crawled in and died on his tongue.

Flashes of memory faded in and out through Fred's mind, slowly, sluggishly, each one blurrier than the next. He'd been in The Leaky Cauldron, reading The Daily Prophet . . . he'd started drinking . . . he'd kept drinking . . . Ginny found him there, somehow . . . they'd had a row . . . he'd snarled something at her — he didn't know quite what he'd said, but it had made her face go white and her jaw clench with anger . . . he'd kept drinking.

There was something else, too — a woman, perhaps? Fred vaguely remembered dark hair and a low, raspy voice. And more — sloppy kisses, breathy laughter, stumbling backwards into an empty room in a seedy inn, a woman's hands roaming all over him . . .

Fred's eyes snapped open, and he winced with pain as blinding sunlight seared through his sensitive eyes. Dread curdled in the pit of his stomach as he squinted, turning his head to the side and hoping beyond reason that he had not done the colossally stupid thing he feared he'd done last night.

The woman slept peacefully, lying on her side with her back facing Fred. The sheets were pulled up to her chest in the front, but fell over her backside almost (but not quite) modestly, artfully, as if she was posed for one of those Muggle Renaissance paintings. Her dark, toffee-coloured back was muscled and her shoulders were broad. One of her arms rested underneath the cream coloured pillow supporting her head, but the other fell down the line of her body, emphasising her curves and her toned physique. A dark tangle of curls sprawled over the sheets.

Fred looked past the woman at the room they were in. It was big and surprisingly ornate for the Leaky Cauldron, which was serviceable and clean but hardly well-decorated. Fred winced as he caught sight of both his clothes and the strange witch's strewn all over the room. There was a lacy light-blue bra hanging over the dresser, and the t-shirt Fred had worn last night was in a messy heap by the door.

Fred's gaze travelled up to the door itself and his blood froze as he saw the green and gold Quidditch robes hanging crookedly from the knob. Of all the witches to have a one-night stand with, he'd picked one of the Harpies.

Ginny was going to kill him.

The woman made a sleepy little snuffling sound, stirring a little before she sighed and rolled onto her back without waking up. Long, dark eyelashes, a sharp nose, a pouty, half-open pair of lips emitting soft snores . . .

All of a sudden, a sick feeling lurched in the pit of Fred's stomach, and he scrambled to his feet with an urgency he didn't know he possessed, stumbling over to the toilet and heaving up every goddamned drink he'd downed the night before. When he was finished, he sank back on his heels and flushed, before rising and washing out his mouth in the sink. Exhausted, hungover, and hating himself, Fred studied himself in the mirror.

Fuck. Fuck.

When he emerged from the bathroom some few minutes later, the Harpy was awake. She sat up against the headboard of the king bed, the sheets pulled up to her chest. She cocked an eyebrow at him as she met his gaze.

"I've never had a man puke after sleeping with me," she said in her accented voice, tilting her head. "Should I be offended, or is this typical for you?"