She was a misfit, he was a git.
Matilda Diggory enters her fifth year of school, ready to remain as under the radar as possible, only there's a catch. She's somehow managed to catch the eye of a particularly annoying redhead, who seems hell-bent on...
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Matilda woke to a headache that pulsed behind her eyes, each throb a cruel reminder of the Firewhiskey she'd so carelessly downed the night before. Her stomach churned, heavy and unsettled, and she groaned as she rolled over, burying her face into the pillow like it could somehow smother the memories clawing their way to the surface.
Flashes. Flickers. Fred's laugh. The press of her hands against his chest. Her smile—too bold, too eager. His hands... pushing her away.
She froze.
No.
The memory settled with the weight of a Bludger to the ribs. He had pulled away—gently, yes, but it hadn't been ambiguous. Fred had kept his distance with a kind of careful grace that made her stomach twist tighter than any hangover ever could.
She'd been too much. Too forward. Too drunk. And Fred... he hadn't wanted it. He hadn't wanted her.
Shame crawled up her spine like frost. She'd ruined it. Whatever unspoken thing they'd been skirting around, she'd shattered it with one too many drinks and a foolish, fleeting moment of want.
Dragging herself out of bed, she splashed cold water on her face, ignoring the sting as it hit her skin. She didn't bother with makeup. What was the point? Guilt was a more effective mask than anything she could paint on.
The Great Hall buzzed with morning chatter and clinking cutlery, but all she could see was him. Fred sat a few seats away from George, laughing—looking lighter, maybe. That should've made her feel better. It didn't.
She watched him from the corner of her eye, barely touching her toast. There was something off in the way he moved. Nothing obvious, just a slight stiffness in his shoulders. Like he was performing ease rather than feeling it.
She should talk to him. She knew that. But her courage frayed every time she glanced his way.
By the time breakfast was winding down, she knew she couldn't put it off any longer. Her legs felt heavy as she stood, her throat dry as she crossed the hall.
"Hey," she said quietly, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Can we talk?"
Fred looked up, and his smile didn't falter—but there was something unreadable in his gaze. Still, he nodded and rose to his feet.
They walked in silence through the corridors, the hush between them thick with unspoken words. She hated the way her palms were sweating. Hated how she could practically hear her own heartbeat.
They stopped near the entrance hall, tucked in a quiet alcove away from the rush of students. Fred folded his arms, leaning against the wall, and she hated that he looked calm. Like last night had barely touched him.
Matilda took a breath. Then another. Just say it.
"I'm really sorry about last night," she blurted, her voice rawer than she meant it to be.
