❝FREDDIE, YOU KNOW YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THIS...❞

.・。.・゜✭・.

All too quickly, the holidays are over, and gone are the days of reading lazily in the common room, of snowball fights on the grounds, of playing Exploding Snap for hours. Ara is back in the throes of the school year, and none of the teachers have any mercy on them after two weeks of break.

Ara is fine with homework, fine with exhausting lessons, she can take a few educational curveballs, but she is absolutely not prepared for what she finds when she, Lee, and Angelina walk down to Care of Magical Creatures.

It's still rather cold and windy out, but Ara does not make out Hagrid's large figure through the fog, and she wonders whether he's inside the hut, waiting for them.

However, as they draw nearer, it's apparent that he is not. In his place is a witch with short gray hair and a stern expression on her face, who introduces herself as Professor Grubbly-Plank and explains to them that she is Hagrid's substitute, as he is "indisposed," and refuses to take any questions from them.

"What does 'indisposed' mean?" Ara whispers to Lee and Angelina, as they follow Professor Grubbly-Plank away from Hagrid's hut.

"Dunno." Lee shrugs. "Can't be good, though."

"Wonder if he's ill," Angelina says.

"Or maybe a Skrewt blew him up." Lee grimaces. "We did try to warn him."

Ara finds out the truth, however, at lunch, when Hermione passes her a copy of the Daily Prophet. Rita Skeeter's written a nasty article about how Hagrid's half-giant and that he's not fit to teach students, and she's quoted Draco Malfoy to prove her point.

"How dare she!" Ara fumes as she and Angelina head to Potions, Fred and George on their heels-the twins, ever the gentlemen, have chosen to escort them to class. "To insinuate that Hagrid is somehow-I mean-"

"She's a nasty woman," George says, nodding. "Dad's never liked her. Says she's the reason journalism's not a respected career anymore."

"What if Hagrid's quit?" Angelina asks, her eyes widening. "What if she's scared him off?"

"Nah, I don't think he'd quit." Fred shakes his head. "Where'd he go, anyway? 'S not like he could just go and work in a shop somewhere."

Ara dwells on this all throughout the week, worried that Hagrid won't return to teaching. Of course, she's had her doubts about his lessons before, and it's not a stretch to say that they could be doing more than feeding Skrewts, but no one else at Hogwarts knows more about magical creatures than Hagrid. Ara doesn't want to learn from anyone else, even if Professor Grubbly-Plank's lessons are a little less...chaotic.

She asks Harry about visiting, and Harry tells her that Hagrid wouldn't open the door when he, Ron, and Hermione went to see him. If Hagrid won't even let them in, he obviously doesn't want to talk to anyone at all. But Ara feels she should at least tell him how much his lessons mean to her, so she writes a quick note, thanking him for everything and asking him to please come back, and borrows Pigwidgeon to send it.

"Hogsmeade this weekend," says Fred lazily one evening, lounging in a chair near the fire in the common room.

"Mmhm." Ara's sitting on the floor, leaning against George's legs, a book propped up on her knees, quill between her teeth.

"You going?"

"Should probably catch up on homework."

"Merlin, how are we friends?" George reaches over and snatches up Ara's ink bottle, tapping it with his wand and turning it bright pink for no reason at all. "You're worse than Hermione, you are."

"Come on, you've been studying practically non-stop all week." Fred sits up straight in his chair, giving Ara his best puppy eyes. "You've got to get your mind off of Hagrid, anyway. We'll have a butterbeer, go to Zonko's, I'll even buy you a new quill at Scrivenshaft's. I promise. Please?"

Ara looks up from her book, into his pretty brown eyes, and while the word on her lips is no, she can't force herself to say it aloud. She can't tell Fred no when he's looking at her like that. So she sighs, shaking her head. "Fine. But I'll hold you to that."

"So now we've got to bribe our best friend to spend time with us." George sinks back into his chair, sighing dramatically. "What is this world coming to? How is homework better than us?"

"Homework doesn't steal my ink." Ara snatches the bottle from his hand and taps it with her own wand, returning it to its original color.

But when the weekend arrives, she's glad she chose to go to Hogsmeade. It's nice to have a break from spellwork and essays, even though it is cold and wet outside, the chilly January rain seeping into their cloaks and chilling them so that all of them are very grateful for the warmth of the Three Broomsticks.

"You two find a table," says Fred, pushing his way through the crowd toward the bar. "I'll get the drinks."

George takes hold of Ara's hand and pulls her toward the furthest corner, where their usual table stands empty. "So," he says, dropping into the chair across from her, "have you thought about the summer?"

"I think about it every year, when it comes round."

George glares at her. "You know what I mean. Where you're staying over the holidays."

Ara sighs. These conversations happen every year, and she always hates them. Of course she'd love to stay with the Weasleys all summer, but Stephen and Calla sacrificed a lot to take her in, and she feels as though she owes them at least the courtesy of staying for a few weeks.

But at the same time, they are sort of...cold and distant, and she spends most of her time there dreaming of the Burrow.

"I dunno," she says finally.

"Come on, A, you're nearly of age!" George groans, shaking his head. "You don't owe them a bloody thing, not after the way they've treated you."

"Who?" Fred has returned, carrying three steaming butterbeers.

"Her 'parents.'" George puts air-quotes around the word "parents." "I'm saying she should just stay with us the whole summer."

"Bloody good idea." Fred drops into the seat next to George.

"Believe me, I want to, but-"

"If you want to do it, then do it." Fred shakes his head. "Ara, you won't be hurting their feelings. How many letters do they send you while you're here? Christmas gifts? Birthday cards?"

The answer is none.

"Mum won't mind," George adds. "She's always asking when you're coming to stay, anyway."

"Pretty sure if she knew how they treated you, she'd march over there and beat them both over the head with a frying pan." Fred grins.

Ara laughs at the imagery. She has no doubt that Mrs. Weasley would do that, and it is both comforting and heartbreaking. Mrs. Weasley is the closest thing to a mother that she has, and the Burrow is very nearly her home.

She opens her mouth to reply, but then George's eyes widen. "Fred, I see Bagman. He's at the end of the bar, talking to Harry."

"Excuse us, love." Fred leaps from his seat, and he and George hurry over to Bagman. Ara doubts they'll get anything out of him, but at least he can't ignore them this time.

"Oi, you!"

Angelina bounds toward her excitedly, her braids tied up in a knot on top of her head. "Have you seen Lee yet?"

"No." Ara shakes her head. "He said he'd meet us at Zonko's a little later."

"Rats." Angelina sighs. "Where are the twins?"

"Over there." Ara gestures to the bar.

"What do they want with Bagman?" Angelina wrinkles her nose. "He's a bit too pompous, if you ask me."

"Knowing them, they're trying to sell him more joke wands," Ara lies. Fred and George have asked her to keep quiet about the whole gold thing; they'd rather deal with it one-to-one than have loads of people in an uproar.

"No doubt," Angelina says, grinning. "Oh, speak of the devils."

"Excuse you, we are not devils." Fred drops back into his chair, looking slightly disappointed. "We are delightful little angels."

"Saints, you might say," George adds with a grin.

"Either of you seen Lee?" Angelina asks.

"No." George shakes his head. "Said he'd meet us at Zonko's a little later. Why?"

"Dervish and Banges has got a Nimbus 2003 and they're about to run a demonstration." Angelina's practically hopping up and down with glee. "Obviously, it's not a Firebolt, but it's got incredible balance and serious deceleration!"

"Merlin's beard." George looks like his eyes might pop out of his head. "Come on, we'll find him." He looks over at Fred and Ara. "You coming?"

Ara glances up at Fred, who shakes his head. "Nah. I promised Ara I'd buy her a new quill, didn't I?"

"You don't have to-"

"I promised," Fred repeats, smiling softly.

"Alright, suit yourselves." George chugs the last of his butterbeer and dashes out the door behind Angelina. "Meet back here later!"

"Fred, we can go and see the demonstration if you want to," Ara says, turning back to face him. "I don't mind."

"Rather not," Fred replies. "Like Angelina said, it's not a Firebolt. And anyway, best to let the two of them be alone sometimes, eh?"

"So you're playing matchmaker, then, are you?"

"You aren't?"

Ara blushes, and Fred grins, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied look in his eyes.

"You didn't get what you wanted out of Bagman?" Ara asks, sipping her butterbeer.

"Blew us off again. Bloody git. Just ran out." Fred shakes his head. "He'll have to come clean, one way or another. Apparently he was chatting with some goblins earlier, and if he's done to them what he did to us, he'll have a lot worse than strongly worded letters."

They finish their butterbeers and head out of the pub into the weak sunshine. There's a large crowd outside of Dervish and Banges, and Ara and Fred skirt around them, heading further up the High Street toward Scrivenshaft's. A burly Ravenclaw steps backward and nearly knocks Ara over, but Fred is faster: He grabs her hand and yanks her out of the way just in time.

"My knight in shining armor," Ara says, grinning up at him.

"Only for you, milady." Fred brings her hand to his lips and kisses the back of it, winking mischievously.

Ara knows it's meant to be a joke, something Fred would do to anyone, but still, the imprint of his lips feels like an electric shock on her skin. She rubs the spot with her thumb awkwardly, shoving her hands into the pockets of her robes, as though the kiss is a fiery mark branded into her skin, visible to everyone in Hogsmeade.

They arrive at Scrivenshaft's, and Fred opens the door for her, waving her inside with a dramatic sweep of his arm. Ara sighs as the familiar smell of ink washes over her.

"You're a very strange girl, Ara Sayer," says Fred, shaking his head at her. "Nearly fainting in a stationery shop."

"Shut up." Ara hits him playfully on the arm. "I could say the same thing to you about Zonko's."

"That is different!" Fred protests, but only half-heartedly.

They are the only two people in the shop-everyone else is either watching the broomstick demonstration or sitting in the Three Broomsticks, Ara supposes-and so Ara ambles through the aisles, glancing at the rows and rows of quills, rolls of parchment, and shelves filled with ink bottles in every color.

"So," Fred says quietly, examining a garish peacock-feather quill to Ara's left, "have you found out anything new about your parents? Your real parents?"

"No." Ara shakes her head. Ever since the Sorting Hat told her that her mother went to Hogwarts-thereby meaning she was magical, and that Stephen and Calla lied to her-Ara has been searching for the true identities of her parents. She searched through every Hogwarts yearbook (although now, she's not sure what she was looking for), asked every adult she knows if they've ever met someone who could be her mother, and even submitted a request to the Ministry of Magic for her birth records.

This last bit was interesting, because the Ministry wrote back and told her that they couldn't grant her request because she was underage, and even if she was of age, those specific records are sealed and can only be opened by a senior Ministry official.

"Bloody hell." Fred sighs. "Nothing?"

"At this point, Freddie, I've given up hope," Ara replies quietly, turning to face him. "And anyway, I'm nearly of age, and it won't matter. I'll move out, get an apprenticeship-"

"That's not the point!" Fred interrupts her. "It's about knowing who you are, where you come from."

"I know who I am." Ara smiles softly. "And I'm content with that. And who knows, maybe Stephen and Calla lied to me to protect me."

"Ara, we both know you deserve to know the truth. They shouldn't have lied to you to begin with."

Ara knows he's right, but she refuses to believe that Stephen and Calla would intentionally hurt her. There has to be a good reason. And if she's meant to know, she'll find out someday.

"It's not worth worrying about," Ara says now, handing Fred her quill of choice: a simple grouse feather quill, cheap and sturdy. "Worry won't make anything better. I'd rather just not think about it."

Fred glances down at the quill in his hand with a frown. "Oh, absolutely not."

"I like that one!" Ara protests, as Fred returns the quill to its place and walks further down the aisle. "Fred, stop-"

He pauses at the end of the aisle, plucks another quill, and holds it up for Ara to see. It looks black at first glance, but as Fred draws closer, Ara sees that it's iridescent, flashing bright blue, green, and violet in the light. It's beautiful.

"This is much better," Fred says, spinning the quill between his fingers. "Magpie feather, and it's Unbreakable. Figure it'll last a while."

"Freddie-"

"Don't argue with me." Fred shakes his head. "You're not getting that boring old quill. Besides, you've got loads of regular ones, and I want you to remember which one's mine." And he winks at her, strolling up the aisle toward the counter, beautiful quill in hand.

Ara had opened her mouth to respond, but now she closes it, her throat suddenly quite dry. Fred is right, of course: She would prefer the magpie quill, because it is lovely and different, but the other quill is functional and familiar and one-third the price. It is already hard enough to watch Fred and George pay for butterbeers every time, but she knows better than to argue with them.

But the way he said it, the way he looked at her... It is getting harder and harder to pretend that things are the same way they've always been. That they are still just best friends. That Ara doesn't imagine what it might be like if they were both a little braver.

She follows him up to the counter, as the owner passes him his change and the beautiful quill. Fred pockets the changes and hands Ara her quill with a smile. "As promised."

"Freddie, you know you don't have to do this," Ara says, as they head out of the shop and back onto the High Street.

"Do what?"

"This." Ara holds up the quill. "Everything. I don't know."

"I know I don't have to. I want to."

"Why?"

"Because you're a human being who I consider to be my favorite person in the world," Fred replies, looking over at her seriously. "And if I'm being honest, I'm holding myself back."

"What do you mean?" Ara asks, although she knows the answer.

"I mean..." Fred pauses for a moment, as if searching for the right words. "I think you deserve more than you're given. And your family doesn't recognize that. So forgive me for trying to pick up the slack."

Ara has to fight to keep her jaw from dropping. She is utterly speechless. What planet is Fred Weasley from? Certainly not Earth.

Fred glances over and grins at her expression. "Cat got your tongue, love?"

No, you do, Ara wants to say, but instead, she says, "No. Just...thinking."

"Well, come on." Fred proffers his arm to her. "Let's go find George and Lee. And try to look a little less starstruck, they might ask questions."

.・。.・゜✭・.

y'all i swear i didn't mean to take so long, but this chapter was so hard to write for no reason. writer's block has been kicking my ass and i keep getting distracted with shiny new projects. i'm like a niffler and it's really annoying.

i've learned enough about myself to stop promising to write sooner, but let's all hope together that i'll get organized at some point and be better at this.