FLAMEOUT \\ fred weasley

Chapter Four

At precisely a quarter to eleven in the morning, Fred turned the key quietly into the lock and cracked open the door to his flat, wincing slightly as the hinges creaked. George was not usually a late riser, but Alicia was, and Fred suspected they'd probably be cuddled up in bed together in a haze of romantic bliss, or giggling and feeding each other a late breakfast, or something equally nauseating. Merlin forbid he heard sounds of passion coming from George's room. There were some things even twins shouldn't know about each other.

He wasn't planning on staying long, anyway — he just wanted to gather some of his things and get to the jewellers shop as quickly as possible. The errand had been planned at Runi's insistence; left to his own devices, Fred would not have bothered with new rings at all.

"Why should we?" he had asked, nonplussed, when she'd brought the matter up. "We already have them." He waved his left hand in front of her eyes.

She smacked his hand and gave him a scandalised look. "These are plastic, you cheapskate. You're a successful entrepreneur with a multi-million galleon net worth. You can afford much more than this for your wife."

Fred had crossed his arms over his chest belligerently. "Yeah, well, you're a professional sportswoman, aren't you? You make millions a season. If anyone should be paying, it's you." He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, that's very nice!" She'd said indignantly, putting her hands on her hips. "You know, I'm starting to think this wasn't an accident after all. You're a gold digger, aren't you?" She sighed and tutted, shaking her head.

Fred had to work to keep from smiling. "Aren't you one of those feminist types?" he'd teased. "Isn't making more than your husband a lifelong dream of yours?"

"I'm not the kind of feminist who stands on principle. I'm the kind of feminist that wants to keep my own money and have access to yours."

Fred had laughed at that.

"Alright," he had said, still chuckling. "You win."

She had smiled smugly. "Would you look at that? Marriage suits you already."

Now, less than an hour later, Fred was beginning to feel like marriage had never suited him less. Or, at the very least, that he was not capable of acting normally in front of Alicia and George, not when they were blissfully happy and wrapped up in each other and he'd just eloped with a stranger. It would seem desperate. Embarrassing. Like he was going through a midlife crisis. His plan was to just go in quietly, pack a suitcase and some gold, and go straight to the jeweller's. He had no intention of loitering here as the pair of lovers sent each other longing looks and murmured sickly sweet nothings in each other's ears. Or, in George's case, ear, singular.

He stepped inside the flat and closed the door quietly behind him, before turning around and tiptoeing towards his room—

"Don't bother."

Fred jumped and spun around to see a very grumpy, dishevelled, and noticeably alone George sitting on their lime-green sofa, arms crossed over his chest. He looked like a wreck, with his ginger hair sticking up all over, deep, purpling bags under his eyes, and an uncharacteristic scowl that belonged on Fred's face more than it ever did on George's. In fact, Fred had looked exactly like that (albeit with both ears attached firmly to his head) that very morning, after he'd thrown up in a random Muggle inn in Scotland.

For a moment, Fred could do nothing but stare.

"Go on," George grumbled. "You can ask."

Fred winced. That wasn't good, then. He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. "Er — want a drink?"