FLAMEOUT \\ fred weasley

Chapter Three

"It's not real," the Harpy, whose name Fred had yet to recall, was still saying fifteen minutes later, pacing back and forth in their room, which they now knew was a honeymoon suite in a Muggle inn somewhere just beyond the Scottish border. "It can't possibly be real. Right?"

Fred scowled, rummaging around in his bag, gritting his teeth against the jolts of pain that corded along his muscles. It was just after eight in the morning, which meant he was more than half an hour late for his medication. Thankfully, the Harpy was too focused on their predicament to notice the way sweat beaded on his forehead or how badly his hands were shaking. "I don't know about impossible," he said for what felt like the millionth time. "It's possible. I remembered writing my name down somewhere. Could have been a marriage schedule."

From the stricken look on her face, he gathered that she'd written her name down somewhere too. "I thought I was signing autographs," she whispered.

"Are you that famous?" Fred asked, trying to use her conversation to distract from his pain. He followed Quidditch still, but he only really paid attention to the Falmouth Falcons, which was his team. She shot him an irritated look, probably thinking he was taking the piss.

"Yes, I am." She said, and if she hadn't said it so matter-of-factly, Fred would have thought she was boasting. "But that's besides the point — we were too drunk last night to consent to marriage!"

"We weren't too drunk to consent to sex," Fred pointed out. He bit back a cry as a particularly sharp stab of pain raced through him.

The Harpy waved her hand impatiently. She hadn't noticed his wince. "That's different. If two people are clearly drunk and attracted to each other, you let them pash in a corner. You don't let them get married!"

"Pash?"

"Have a snog," she said in an exaggerated English accent.

Fred's hand closed around the bottle he was looking for and his body nearly sagged with relief. He pulled it out, popped the little cork, and downed the potion in one mouthful.

Immediately, the pain racing through him dulled. It was still present, but as a more manageable ache instead of the sharp agony that had threatened to debilitate him.

"What's that?" Asked the nosy Harpy.

"Hangover cure," Fred lied.

"Do you have more? Can I have some?" she asked.

"Nope."

She frowned at him. "Stingy." But she didn't press the matter, and Fred was grateful for it. She turned back to her own magically enlarged bag and began counting out Muggle money to leave as a tip. Fred was impressed; most witches and wizards never carried Muggle money on them, a mistake he and his siblings knew better than to make after a couple of summers spent travelling with one Hermione Granger. As the Harpy counted out bills, Fred capitalised on her distraction and took a moment to study her properly.

She looked somewhat ordinary at first glance, vaguely cute, with a round, undefined face and a slightly squashed nose. But he also found that she had nice eyes, big and bold and dark, and a set of full, pillowy lips that were inviting and enticing and quite kissable, and these features made her surprisingly beautiful on a closer look. And the way her entire face transformed into something incredibly sexy when she gave him that impish grin, eyes flashing with mischief . . . yes, Fred could understand why past him had been so instantly attracted to her. Attracted, but not besotted; she was nothing like the type of woman he tended to seriously pursue.

She was nothing like Gabriella Ackley.

"So you're a Beater on the Harpies?" He asked, mostly to make small talk as they finished packing. He'd use his wand, but his hands were still trembling, which always messed with his spellwork. "What's it like, working with Gwenog? I've always wondered."