Playing With Fire * { Fred Weasley }

By Torchlight and Firelight

Angelina and I had always been more like friendly, but distant acquaintances than proper roommates. We were part of different social circles—I had Bea, she had Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell—and our interests never really seemed to align in ways that invited conversation. She was a Quidditch champion; I could reliably identify a Quaffle. I read Muggle mysteries and historical fiction; she read poetry and romance novels. Our conversations were limited to "How are you?" and "Have you started that Potions essay? I think Snape is trying to kill us" and "Have you seen my green jumper?" There was nothing deeper, nothing more substantive—and there wasn't anything wrong with that.

But my fake relationship with Fred created an awkward overlap where none had previously existed. It was, of course, a manufactured relationship and I had no reason to be upset about Fred's interest (past or present) in Angelina, but she didn't know any of that. I treaded carefully in anticipation of some sort of disruption, some change, some acknowledgment of the awkward situation that we now found ourselves in. But for all of my bated breath and tiptoeing around the obvious, Angelina seemed unaffected. Nothing changed—our "hellos" and "how are yous" were just as pleasant, there did not seem to be any animosity or subtext in our queries about homework. After several weeks of this, I began to wonder if maybe I had overthought it.

And then I overheard her talking to Alicia on the Friday immediately preceding my third fake date with Fred.

I'd spent that morning developing the sort of raging headache that makes you wish for the quiet release of death. The prospect of sitting through Defense Against the Dart Arts and Professor Moody's surprise declarations of "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" became less and less feasible as the hours ticked by. Twenty minutes before class was due to start, I sought out Professor Moody and requested a pass to the hospital wing.

Some people find Madam Pomfrey to be a bit much—she is the textbook example of a mother hen—but I've always rather liked her. The hospital wing was one of the few places at Hogwarts without expectations: you were simply there to be taken care of. It was a nice break from the rest of life's demands.

Madam Pomfrey greeted me with the usual amount of fuss along with the requisite questions about whether I'd been eating enough (yes), drinking enough water (probably), and sleeping enough (almost certainly not). She administered a Headache Draught and chivvied me off to one of the cots with instructions to rest while the potion did its work. After a brief lecture on the importance of healthy sleep habits, she snapped the curtains shut and left me to lie quietly on the cot.

I lay there for a while, breathing evenly and deeply, my arm draped over my eyes to block out the light. I was not exactly sleeping and not exactly awake, but somewhere in the middle. The pain gradually began to recede as the muscles in my neck and shoulders slowly relaxed.

I wasn't entirely sure how much time had passed when I heard footsteps.

"What seems to be the trouble, my dears?" said Madam Pomfrey.

"I've got cramps, she's getting a cold," said a familiar voice. My half-asleep brain identified the speaker as Angelina.

"It's just allergies," said another voice hoarsely. That was Alicia.

"You don't have allergies," said Angelina. "Honestly, we go through this every time."

"We certainly do," said Madam Pomfrey. There was a short pause. "Fever. As I suspected."

"I'm just overheated—"

"Really, Miss Spinnet, must we go through this again?" clucked Madam Pomfrey.

"Have you got a potion for stubbornness?" asked Angelina dryly.

"If I had, I would have used it in her third year when she insisted that her broken arm was just sprained," said Madam Pomfrey. "Go lie down and I'll get you both sorted. The cots over there, if you don't mind."