Playing With Fire * { Fred Weasley }

Hogsmeade

Bea's dad sometimes jokes that it is no accident that her name is only one letter away from a very angry insect. This annoys Bea, which only serves to prove her dad's point, annoying her even further and entertaining the rest of us. Bea can be incredibly funny when she is angry. She looks deceptively sweet—she's barely over five feet tall and she has the sort of heart-shaped face that always seems to be on the verge of a smile. She does not look like the sort of person who would approach an argument with the single-minded persistence of a Welsh terrier. Even though we've been best friends since we were eleven, it's surprising how easily I forget this.

She was already staring at me when I walked into the common room that evening, as she had situated herself in one of the armchairs by the fire that allowed her an uninterrupted view of the portrait hole. There would be no sneaking upstairs to the dormitory, not if I didn't want to make things worse. I rehearsed my argument as I made my way toward her: I didn't mean to lie, it just happened, I'm not good at talking about these things...

"How long have you been staring like that?" I asked as I sat down in the chair opposite her.

"Charlotte Victoria Lewis do not try to change the subject."

"I can't very well change the subject if we haven't even started the conversation yet," I protested.

"Don't try to argue semantics with me either," she said, eyes glinting dangerously. "You know exactly why we are here and you have some serious explaining to do."

"Look, I know you aren't happy with me—"

Bea snorted.

"—and I understand why. I know I lied to you and I'm sorry. I didn't mean for things to turn out like this. Really."

Was that another lie? I wasn't sure.

"I didn't like keeping this a secret. This whole thing just sort of...happened and I didn't really know what to make of it, so I didn't talk about it."

"That is why I'm here, you idiot!" exclaimed Bea, throwing her arms up in a plea to the heavens. I was encouraged by the fact that she called me an idiot—Bea didn't like idiocy, but she tended to see it as a temporary and sometimes excusable condition. She was much less forgiving about traits she perceived to be inherent. "Bloody hell, Charlotte, if you'd just told me, I would've helped you work it out."

"I know, I know—"

"Then why didn't you—?"

"Because it's not that simple, Bea."

"Of course it's simple—"

"Maybe for you it is, but—" I was starting to feel flustered as we edged closer to the truth. "I mean—how often have you heard me talk about a boy? Not bloody often."

"Not for lack of trying," she retorted. "I've said it before and I'll say it again: you do not devote nearly enough time to being young and stupid."

This was an ongoing battle between the two of us. Bea felt that I needed to devote more time to having fun, which she defined as having an occasional fling or even an exclusive relationship. Since I was already harboring a secret crush that I had no intention of revealing, I took the position that I could be young and stupid over the summer holidays, but I was much too busy during the school year. Bea felt that I was missing the point. She may have been right.

Of course, I couldn't tell her half of this. I took a deep breath.

"Look—it's just...I've...I've always felt really...weird and vulnerable about that sort of thing."