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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The following morning, Fred did exactly as he said he would.
Waking with the sun wasn't as easy as he thought, though the late sunrise worked in his favour after a long night spent reading his new book. He dressed warmly and packed an extra pair of socks in his bag for Matilda before setting off.
His first stop was the Kitchens, where he collected a few pastries and two thermoses filled with warm honey and milk. Then he slipped out through the doors at the clocktower, crossed the bridge, and followed the worn path to the Whomping Willow.
Just as Matilda had taught him, he tossed a rock at the small knob near the base of the tree, freezing its thrashing branches. He gripped his bag tighter and dropped down into the tunnel, teeth gritted as the cold, damp earth soaked into his clothes.
Once standing, he brushed dirt off his trousers and took in the narrow, shadowed tunnel stretching ahead.
"Merlin's beard," he muttered, brows furrowed. Matilda had to do this every month? It didn't seem fair.
The walk was far from peaceful. The distant drip of water echoed off the stone, each one spiking his nerves. The close walls and dim wand light made his heart race—and not in the good way.
Just when he thought he might lose it, Fred spotted the tunnel's end. He hurried for the ladder, climbed quickly, and shoved the trapdoor open.
The Shrieking Shack was ugly.
Dust coated every surface, wooden panels were scratched and faded, fabrics frayed, and the weak fire offered little warmth.
Matilda lay curled on a rug in front of the hearth, cheeks pink, fingers blue. Fred lifted his wand, nudging the fire back to life with a warming charm. He looked around for a blanket—nothing. Just the tattered couch and a cramped kitchen. But there were stairs, and he spotted a bed through an open doorway.
Carefully, he climbed them, avoiding the large gap near the bottom and squeaky boards as he scoped out the bedrooms and bathroom. The bedrooms were empty of comfort—crumbled linen, broken lamps. The bathroom smelled like mould and decay.
With no luck, he made his way back down. Matilda was sitting up now, holding her hands out to the flames.
"Morning," he greeted as he stepped off the last stair.
She turned at the sound of his voice and smiled. Her eyes were tired, but they lit up as they landed on him. "Hey."
"I brought breakfast," he said, settling beside her. He placed the pastries between them and handed her a thermos. "Just something from the kitchens."
"Thanks, Weasley," she said, wrapping her hands around the warm metal. She inhaled the scent of the honey and milk, then turned her gaze back to the fire. Her voice softened. "I really shouldn't be upset right now, but I am."
