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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Fred stood with Adelaide, George, and Angelina as they waited for everyone to file through the doors, clustering together to avoid being knocked into by the hundreds of other students in the Entrance Hall.
Adelaide leaned into his side, draping her shawl back over her shoulders with a casual elegance that was anything but accidental. Her dress was deep crimson—plunging, silken, and loud in all the ways she knew how to wield. The fabric clung to her curves like it had been stitched onto her body, and while Fred didn't want to look, his eyes betrayed him more than once. It wasn't even desire—it was instinct, distraction. He could see George and even Angelina struggling to keep their gazes from straying.
"Where are the rest of your friends?" Fred asked, glancing around. "I thought you said they'd meet us here."
"It's too crowded," Adelaide shrugged. "We'll have to find them once we're inside." She adjusted the shawl again, this time slower, a kind of softness overtaking her expression. Her lips parted slightly, brows arching—not in annoyance or flirtation, but awe. Fred turned to follow her gaze.
And there she was.
A tall, lean girl descended the staircase like a secret about to be told—silent, steady, radiant in the way candlelight dances on water. Her dress was green satin, the colour of grass on a sunny day, shimmering gold where the torchlight touched. A plunging neckline exposed the faint silver of old scars, pale against her warm skin. Her hair was swept back into an intricate bun, pearl pins glinting like stars nestled among the strands.
He felt the sudden, sharp ache of his own cowardice as he noticed she was alone. You fucking idiot.
Pride had kept him silent. Ego had chained him to the wrong choices. And now she walked past him like the ghost of something he could've had—something more than friendship, though he'd never had the courage to name it.
The vivid image of Matilda in that stunning dress made his stomach twist. She was...beautiful. There was no other word for it.
Fred shifted his gaze, trying to refocus on the present. "There's Matilda," he said, nodding towards her.
"She looks stunning," George commented, clearly impressed. He had a sour glint in his eye as he tilted his head at his twin.
"Yeah," Fred agreed, though his voice was somewhat flat. George knew something he didn't.
And then Matilda looked at him.
Their eyes met—just for a second—but in that moment, time bent. The crowd disappeared. The talking faded. It was just her and him, suspended in the weight of everything unspoken. Her expression was unreadable, cool and composed, but there was something behind it. Anger, maybe. Disappointment. Pain. All things he had earned.
Fred swallowed hard and looked away.
He followed the others into the Great Hall, but the image of her lingered like a burn on the inside of his ribs.
