I gasp for air, breaking through the icy surface of the water, the shock of the cold hitting me like a brick wall. My lungs burn as I cough violently, expelling the frigid lake water that had invaded them. Instinctively, my arms and legs flail to keep me afloat, but my soaked school robes cling to me like dead weight, doing little to protect me from the freezing bite of the water.
The sunlight reflects off the rippling surface, blinding me momentarily. I squint, my vision sharpening just enough to make out rows and rows of people standing along the dock. Students and staff, their figures blurred by the sunlight, clap and cheer while some announcer's voice echoes over the scene, declaring something I can't quite process. My brain is too fogged with cold and confusion.
Then, a splash beside me. I twist, startled, and my heart sinks as I recognize Cedric Diggory swimming beside me, panting as he pulls himself upright in the water. His expression is as composed as ever, but there's something uneasy in the way his gaze shifts when it meets mine.
"What..." My teeth chatter violently as I try to form words, my voice shaking as much as my body. "What is going on?"
"Second task," Cedric explains, his tone breathless but steady. He hesitates, glancing away as though he doesn't want to say the rest. "It's about retrieving something—or rather, someone—important to us."
I stare at him, uncomprehending. The freezing water feels like it's wrapping around my brain, slowing my thoughts to a crawl. "What does that have to do with me?" I snap, though the sharpness of my tone is dulled by the trembling in my voice.
Cedric looks awkward now, rubbing the back of his neck even as he treads water. "Well... they didn't think you'd volunteer," he admits, his words careful, but they strike me like a blow anyway. "It was Mad-Eye's idea."
The reality crashes down on me in a tidal wave of dread and fury. I was used. Manipulated. Tossed into this freezing hellscape like a pawn in someone else's game. My stomach churns as I glare at Cedric, though I know he isn't the one to blame.
"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, the anger in my voice barely masking the tremor of fear. My limbs feel sluggish as I start swimming toward the dock, the icy water dragging at me with every stroke.
Cedric swims beside me, keeping pace easily despite my uneven movements. "Serena," he starts cautiously, his tone placating, "I'm sorry. I didn't know they'd—"
"Save it," I snap, cutting him off. "Just save it." I don't have the energy for pleasantries, not when my head is spinning, my body trembling, and every fiber of my being screaming at me to get out of this lake.
As the dock comes into view, the cheers from the crowd grow louder. My ears ring with the sound, but it only makes the knot in my chest tighten. My thoughts race, tumbling over each other in a chaotic mess.
How did I even get here? The last thing I remember is McGonagall, her wand, the muttered spell. And now this? What the hell is going on?
When I finally reach the dock, I grab hold of the wooden edge with shaking hands, pulling myself up with more effort than it should take. Cedric follows suit, hauling himself out of the water with ease and offering me a hand. I ignore it, dragging myself onto the wooden planks and collapsing in a shivering heap.
"Serena..." Cedric starts again, but I shake my head violently, cutting him off once more.
"Don't," I hiss, my voice low and trembling with barely restrained anger. "Just don't."
The announcer's voice drones on in the background, congratulating Cedric and detailing the "courage" and "determination" displayed during the task. I barely register the words as I sit there, soaked and freezing, my fists clenched so tightly my nails bite into my palms.
Above the noise, I hear a familiar voice. "Malfoy!"
My head snaps up instinctively, my heart sinking as Fred Weasley pushes through the crowd, his face a mask of confusion and anger. He stops a few feet away, his eyes scanning me quickly before narrowing on Cedric.
"What the hell happened to her?" Fred demands, his voice low and dangerous. Cedric opens his mouth to respond, but Fred cuts him off, taking a step closer. "What were you thinking, letting her get dragged into this?"
"I didn't—" Cedric starts, but Fred's glare intensifies, and he wisely shuts his mouth.
"Fred, stop," I manage, my voice hoarse and trembling. "It wasn't him."
Fred's gaze flicks to mine, his jaw tightening as his eyes soften just a fraction. For a moment, he looks like he wants to argue, but then he exhales sharply, running a hand through his wet hair. "Come on," he says gruffly, offering me a hand. "Let's get you out of here before you freeze."
I hesitate, my pride warring with my exhaustion, but my body makes the choice for me. My hand slips into his, and he pulls me to my feet, his grip firm and steady as he leads me toward the warmth of the castle.
As we walk away, I can feel Cedric's eyes on my back, but I don't look back. My chest burns with anger, humiliation, and something else I can't name. Fred doesn't say a word as he guides me toward the castle, his hand steady on my arm. For once, his silence is comforting. And for the first time since I woke up in that cursed lake, I don't feel entirely alone.
...
The warmth of the Gryffindor common room does little to stop the relentless trembling that racks my body. My wet robes cling to me like a second skin, and Fred's oversized coat draped over my shoulders feels both too heavy and not enough to fight the cold that's settled deep in my bones. Each step I take leaves a small puddle in my wake, a trail of water marking my path from the portrait hole. The fire crackles in the hearth, the sound soothing, but the tension in the room is palpable.
Fred walks a step ahead of me, glancing back every few seconds. His face is uncharacteristically serious, the usual smirk replaced by something...softer. Worry, maybe. It's a look I'm not used to seeing on him, and I hate the way it makes my chest tighten.
"You don't have to do this," I murmur, my voice shaking as much as my body. I stop in the middle of the room, forcing him to turn and face me. "You could've stayed out there. Watched the rest of the task." My words are weak, lacking the usual venom I reserve for him.
Fred's brows knit together, and for a moment, he just stares at me. Then he shrugs, leaning casually against the armrest of a nearby couch, though there's nothing casual about the tension in his shoulders. "Could've," he says simply, "but I didn't."
I blink at him, confused. "Why?"
He exhales, running a hand through his damp hair, which is still tousled from the spray of the lake. "Because, Malfoy," he starts, his tone biting but not cruel, "someone had to make sure you didn't keel over from hypothermia. And it sure as hell wasn't going to be Cedric."
The mention of Cedric stings, and I flinch involuntarily. Fred notices, of course he does, and his eyes narrow slightly, like he's trying to piece something together.
"I'm fine," I say, though my chattering teeth betray me. I tighten his coat around my shoulders, pulling it closer like it's a shield. "You can go back now."
Fred lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "You're impossible, you know that? You nearly drowned in that bloody lake, and you're still trying to brush it off like it's nothing."
"I didn't drown," I snap, my voice rising slightly. "I came up first, didn't I?"
He takes a step closer, and suddenly the air between us feels charged. His hazel eyes lock onto mine, his expression sharp but unreadable. "Yeah, you came up first," he says, his voice low. "But you didn't know what was going on down there, did you? They dragged you into that task without a word, and you just...went along with it. You're bloody reckless, Malfoy."
The accusation in his tone makes my temper flare. "Reckless?" I shoot back, taking a step toward him. "I didn't have a choice, Weasley. Or do you think I volunteered to be shoved into freezing water with no warning?"
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, we just stare at each other, the silence heavy and suffocating. The fire crackles behind me, casting flickering shadows across his face. There's something unreadable in his eyes, something that makes my heart pound in a way I wish it wouldn't.
"Why do you care, anyway?" I finally ask, my voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "You've made it clear you can't stand me."
Fred doesn't answer right away. Instead, he steps closer, his gaze still locked on mine. He's so close now I can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the way his brows furrow just slightly like he's trying to decide whether or not to say what's on his mind.
"Maybe I don't," he mutters, but the words lack conviction. His voice is softer now, almost reluctant. "But you're not as easy to ignore as I'd like you to be, Malfoy."
I blink, stunned into silence. For a moment, I forget the cold, forget the wet robes clinging to my skin, forget the fact that I'm supposed to hate him. All I can focus on is the way he's looking at me, like he's trying to figure out something even he doesn't understand.
The tension is unbearable, and I open my mouth to say something—anything—but the words catch in my throat. Fred's eyes flicker down to my lips for the briefest of moments, and my breath hitches.
"Don't overthink it," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
And then, just like that, he steps back, the moment shattered. He grabs a blanket from the couch and tosses it at me, his smirk returning, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Dry off before you catch something, Malfoy," he says, his tone lighter now, almost teasing. "Go change. Wouldn't want you to miss your next grand adventure."
I catch the blanket, still too stunned to respond as Fred turns and strides toward the boys' dormitory. For a moment, I think he's gone, the lingering tension in the room dissipating with his retreating footsteps. But then he's back, standing in front of me again with something unexpected in his hands—a maroon knit sweater.
He holds it out stiffly, like it's something fragile, or maybe dangerous. His expression is unreadable, his jaw set, but there's a flicker of something in his hazel eyes—hesitation, maybe. "Go change, Malfoy," he mutters, his voice softer than usual. "Can't have you keeling over and leaving me to deal with your sick, sorry self."
I blink, caught off guard by the gesture. His words are as sharp as ever, but there's no real venom behind them. It's like he's trying to mask the fact that he actually cares with some half-hearted jab. For a moment, I just stare at him, then at the sweater in his hands.
"Is this one of your mum's infamous Weasley sweaters?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. My tone is light, teasing, but there's a genuine warmth behind it.
Fred narrows his eyes, clearly trying to keep up his indifferent facade. "It's a sweater, Malfoy. Don't overanalyze it."
To my own surprise, I laugh—a quiet, genuine sound that feels strange after everything that's happened. His insults have been...softer lately. Somewhere along the way, his barbs have shifted from biting to almost endearing. And, somehow, I've found his stupid, ignorant jokes more humorous than idiotic.
"Thanks, Weasley," I mutter, taking the sweater from his hands. The wool is thick and warm, and I hate how comforting it feels just holding it.
He shrugs, his gaze flicking anywhere but at me. "Don't mention it," he grumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Seriously. Don't."
I roll my eyes and wrap the blanket tighter around me. "Your secret's safe with me," I say, my voice laced with mock solemnity. "Wouldn't want anyone thinking you have a heart or something."
Fred huffs a laugh, and for a moment, the tension between us softens. "Yeah, yeah. Just go change before you catch a cold."
I hesitate for a beat, studying him. There's something about this version of Fred—the one who's standing here offering me warmth, even if it's wrapped in sarcasm—that feels disarming. It's not the smug, cocky boy I'm used to sparring with. It's something deeper, quieter, and I don't know what to make of it.
"Fine," I say finally, standing and clutching the sweater and blanket to my chest. "But if this thing smells like you, I'm burning it."
Fred smirks, the spark of his usual humor returning. "It'll smell like brilliance and charm," he shoots back, his tone light. "You're welcome."
I roll my eyes again, but there's no malice in it this time. As I turn and head toward the dormitory stairs, I can't help the small smile that tugs at the corners of my lips. For once, the silence he leaves behind isn't heavy—it's almost...comforting.
His sweater falls just above my knees, the oversized knit swallowing me in a way that feels far too comforting for my liking. The sleeves hang well past my hands, so I roll them up, exposing my wrists as the soft fabric brushes against my skin. That damn scent—cinnamon and musk—fills my nose again, subtle but undeniable. It's warm, grounding, and infuriatingly familiar. I hate how much I don't hate it.
My bare legs carry me down from the girls' dormitory, the frigid air nipping at my skin but doing little to shake the warmth of the sweater. My hair, still damp, has dried just enough to leave a chaotic halo of frizz—a mess that I should probably care about, but right now, I don't. I have bigger problems.
Like Fred Weasley.
To my surprise, when I step into the common room, he's still there. Sprawled lazily on the sofa near the fire, his long legs stretched out, his head tilted back against the cushions. The soft glow of the firelight dances across his features, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the slight curve of his lips. He looks...comfortable. Too comfortable.
His eyes snap to me as soon as I come into view. For a moment, he doesn't say anything. His gaze does a slow, deliberate scan—starting at my face, trailing down to my exposed legs, lingering there just long enough to make my skin prickle. His lips part slightly, and he quickly clears his throat, turning his attention to the fire as if it suddenly became the most interesting thing in the room.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to ignore the way my cheeks heat under his gaze. I cross the room with measured steps, flopping onto the armchair nearest to him with a dramatic huff. The fire crackles between us, the tension thick enough to choke on.
"This doesn't mean I like you," I say finally, my voice sharp but lacking its usual bite.
Fred chuckles, low and rough, the sound curling around the room like smoke. He runs a hand through his already-messy hair, his fingers catching in the auburn strands before dropping to his lap. "Don't worry, Malfoy," he drawls, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'd never imagine."
His words sting more than they should, but I brush it off, tucking my legs beneath me as I glare at the fire. "Good," I mutter, tugging the sleeves of his sweater down over my hands as if that will shield me from the weight of his presence.
Fred shifts in his seat, and I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He's leaning forward now, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped loosely together. The firelight reflects in his eyes, making them look warmer than usual, softer. But his expression is anything but relaxed—it's guarded, like he's trying to work something out in his head.
"You know," he says after a long pause, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative, "you're not half as scary as you think you are."
I snap my head toward him, narrowing my eyes. "Excuse me?"
He grins, the mischievous light back in his eyes, but there's something underneath it—something almost tender. "All that snarling and snapping," he says, waving a hand vaguely in my direction. "It's just smoke and mirrors, isn't it?"
My chest tightens, and I sit up straighter, my glare sharpening. "You don't know anything about me."
Fred tilts his head, his grin softening into something unreadable. "Maybe not," he admits, leaning back against the sofa. "But I'm starting to figure you out, Malfoy."
There's something in his tone—something confident but not smug, gentle but not condescending—that makes my stomach twist in a way I don't like. I open my mouth to fire back, but the words catch in my throat. The weight of his gaze is too much, too intimate, and I feel like I'm standing on the edge of something I can't name.
I roll my eyes instead, pulling my legs tighter beneath me. "You're annoying."
Fred laughs, the sound warm and unguarded, and for a moment, it feels like the tension between us shifts, softens. "And you're a nightmare," he counters, his voice light but his eyes still holding that strange intensity.
The room falls quiet again, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the faint rustle of the wind outside. I should get up, leave, put some distance between us before this...whatever this is...gets any more complicated. But I don't. Instead, I stay rooted in my chair, the warmth of his sweater wrapping around me like a shield.
And for some reason, Fred doesn't move either.
"Fred..." I start again, my voice barely above a whisper, thick with nerves and something I can't quite name. The words feel too heavy, too dangerous, but I can't hold them back anymore.
He tilts his head slightly, his gaze locking onto mine with that infuriating intensity. "Yes?" he prompts, his voice steady but laced with curiosity.
I swallow hard, willing myself to keep going. "For someone who claims to hate me, you have a funny way of showing it," I say, the words tumbling out faster than I intend. My pulse quickens, but I force myself to meet his gaze. "You've kissed me... twice now. Once I could write off as a moment of madness, but twice?" I pause, the lump in my throat making it harder to breathe. "I'm sure Angelina would be more than happy to make out with you if that's what you need."
His lips twitch upward, that maddening smirk playing on his face. His hazel eyes gleam with mischief, but there's something else in them too—something softer, more deliberate. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Malfoy," he says, leaning forward just enough to close the space between us, "but weren't you the one telling me not to stop?"
Heat floods my cheeks, and I let out a scoff, trying to cover up the way his words make my heart race. "That's beside the point," I snap, though my voice lacks conviction. I cross my arms over my chest, more to keep my hands from trembling than anything else.
Fred chuckles, low and rough, the sound sending an irritating shiver down my spine. "Oh, it's very much the point," he counters, his tone infuriatingly smug. He leans back against the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, like he doesn't have a care in the world. "Admit it, Malfoy. You enjoyed it."
I narrow my eyes at him, refusing to back down. "You're insufferable," I mutter, though the heat in my cheeks betrays me. "And that's not an admission."
He raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. "So, you didn't enjoy it?"
"I didn't say that," I blurt out before I can stop myself, and immediately regret it. The smirk on his face grows impossibly larger, and I want to throttle him and myself at the same time.
"Thought so," he murmurs, his voice dipping just low enough to make my stomach flutter.
I roll my eyes, trying to regain some semblance of control. "This doesn't mean anything," I insist, my tone sharper now. "You don't even like me, and I—" I cut myself off, realizing too late how dangerous this line of thought is.
Fred's expression softens, just slightly. The teasing glint in his eyes dims, replaced by something quieter, something I can't quite name. "Maybe I don't," he says, his voice low and almost reluctant. "But maybe you're not as easy to hate as I thought."
The words hang between us, heavy and unspoken. I can't look away from him, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us—the fire crackling softly in the background, the weight of his gaze pressing against mine.
"Why do you do that?" I ask quietly, my voice barely audible.
He furrows his brows. "Do what?"
"Say things like that," I whisper, my chest tight. "Like you're trying to convince yourself of something."
Fred doesn't answer right away. Instead, he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he studies me with that damn intensity again. "Maybe I am," he says finally, his voice quiet but steady. "Maybe you make things... complicated."
My heart skips a beat, but I don't let it show. Instead, I lift my chin, forcing a smirk to my lips. "Good," I say, my tone dripping with fake confidence. "Because I'm not going to make this easy for you, Weasley."
His laugh is soft, genuine, and it takes me by surprise. He shakes his head, leaning back again. "I'd expect nothing less, Malfoy."
The tension between us is thick, almost suffocating, but neither of us moves to break it. For a moment, I let myself wonder what it would be like to close the distance between us, to see if his lips feel the same as they did before. But then I remember who he is—and who I am—and I shove the thought away.
I stand abruptly, feeling the tension in the room pressing down on me like a weight I can't carry anymore. "Thanks for the sweater," I say, my voice deliberately clipped as I step away from the couch.
Fred leans back, watching me with an expression I can't quite place—somewhere between amused and something softer, something quieter. His smirk has softened, his hazel eyes following my movements like he's searching for something. "Anytime, Malfoy," he calls after me, his tone lighter than the weight hanging between us. But there's something in his voice, something almost hesitant, that makes my chest tighten.
I hesitate at the base of the stairs, my fingers curling around the railing. The sweater hangs loose on my frame, its warmth a reminder of the boy still sitting by the fire. I should just keep walking, leave this conversation behind like every other confusing moment between us. But something stops me.
Turning back slightly, I glance over my shoulder, catching Fred's gaze again. He's still watching me, his head tilted slightly, a curious look flickering across his face. His posture is relaxed, but there's tension in the way his hands grip the edge of the couch, like he's holding himself back.
"You're right," I say finally, my voice quieter now, almost hesitant.
Fred raises an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "About what?"
"About me making things complicated." I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to hold his gaze even as my heart pounds. "But I think you're doing a pretty good job of that yourself, Weasley."
For a moment, he just stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips—not the teasing smirk I've grown used to, but something softer, something that feels dangerously real.
"Goodnight, Fred," I say, turning fully this time and making my way up the stairs before he can respond.
"Goodnight, Serena," he murmurs, his voice so soft I barely hear it.
As I reach the dormitory, I pause just inside the door, leaning back against the frame. The warmth of the fire lingers on my skin, and his words echo faintly in my mind. Complicated doesn't even begin to cover it.
But as I curl up in bed, Fred Weasley's sweater still draped over me, I realize I don't mind as much as I should.