#hpffnet

And of course none of this would’ve happened if it weren’t for that stupid ginger flirting with her.

Fred Weasley is loud and rowdy and entirely chalk full of bad ideas and Pansy swears to god, that boy eats more sugar than the devil.

But—

He is clever.

And she never expected him to be so rottenly sarcastic at the core. That smile—that smirk—with his perfect dimples and his perfect teeth, it makes her angry.

So when she sees Mr. Willy Wonka walking up to her during breakfast, a bag of jokes in one hand and a slice of toast occupying the other, she panics.

He sits down next to her and grins like confectioner’s sugar is falling from his lips, he truly is beautiful to look at but something is strange about him today.

He’s happier than usual, almost upbeat—amused.

She doesn’t respond when he asks her out.

She actually doesn’t hear either. He had said something about borrowing a telescope from a friend and there being a full moon tonight.

He smiles, eagerly.

All Pansy can pay attention to though, is Fred’s perfectly quiffed almost tangerine-colored hair and how soft it must be and his burgundy knit cardigan hanging loosely from his strong frame and she has a need—an enticement—to touch it and honestly—honestly—she’s a good person but he makes an idiot out of her, stuttering and blushing and working to create any excuse on earth that would prevent her from being alone with him.

How could she ever explain that she has a crush on a Gryffindor?

Nevertheless, a Weasley.

The Slytherins would mock her, everyone would lose all adoration for her, her parents would disown her . . . Hell would be unleashed and Fred, well he would probably date her and oh god oh god oh god—

She can’t decide which is worse. Wishing you could date a boy or dating a boy.

She can’t decide which is better. Loving someone or being loved back by someone.

The stress alone is doing enough damage to her pores. She can’t think about silly things like romance these days. There are more important things, her mother tells her. Eliminate all distractions, her father tells her.

And so she does.

"Do I look like a werewolf to you?" She says, turning away from the tall boy who only replies by scooting closer and eagerly leaning his elbows on the table.

"C’mon, it’ll be gorgeous," he insists. "The glittering stars, the great big moon, and it’s a perfectly warm night, I’ll even bring snacks."

She thinks to herself how much she loves it when he uses his hands to describe things. Like he’s painting a picture just for her.

There is something cruel in the idea of attraction and all of it’s winding paths in and out of her own idealism. She could feel every single type of attraction for him and yet none at all.

Because she hates Gryffindors. And she hates loud boys; hyper boys; comically cute boys. She hates sweet boys and funny boys. She hates boys.

Fred is some sort of magical spell, she thinks. Like a potion that makes you laugh and want sunshine and pretty things in the midst of a war.

And if nothing had happened just then, she might’ve actually agreed to him.

But of course the prying inquisitive bleach blonde brat-of-a-boy Draco Malfoy just had to fucking ruin everything when he slid down the bench to the Slytherin table with a plate full of hashbrowns and sausages and about a million other breakfast items.

"What’s a Weasley doing here?" he says in a peremptory voice.

"Oh my god, Draco, I don’t know. I didn’t invite him." She huffs and gives him a sharp look.

Turning toward Fred she continues, "Look, whichever twin you are, I don’t know you and I don’t want to go on a fucking date to look at the fucking stars with you. So stop stalking me."

She takes a large spoonful from her granola bowl and brushes her bangs out of her eyes, chewing and swallowing and not paying the slightest attention toward him anymore.

It seems she may have spoken a little too loudly though because a crowd of third-year girls, draco’s stupid posse and even Professor Snape has leaned in closer to the drama.

Fred nods his head, slowly—calmly—and stands.

Pansy’s face goes red and her fingers turn white where they are gripping her spoon so tightly.

He places a bag of cherry licorice next to her breakfast bowl. And brushing the hair out of her face, he softly presses his lips to her neck.

She doesn’t remember much of how it felt other than thinking that he kisses like it’s a religion. Like she’s a sanctum of worship and he wants to devour her.

It is slow.

Like honey.

And unwelcome.

But she doesn’t pull away.

Shivers race up her spine and she turns toward him, completely mute.

"I’m going to stop stalking you now, alright," he whispers and smiles.

And it’s a wickedly affectionate ear-to-ear grin. It’s an evil secret he’ll never admit to. It’s the sole reason she’ll be left awake at night wondering how he could do such a curious thing to her just by smiling.

He leaves.

And at exactly 4:18pm that afternoon she rides her bike to the astronomy tower, opens the bag of licorice he left near her breakfast that morning and takes a large bite out of the first one her hand touches.

It is exactly 4:25pm when she turns into a ghost. Or rather when she loses all physical feeling. When she looks down and can’t she her body, her ironed pleated mini-skirt, her perfectly manicured nails.

The bag of candy falls to the floor and licorice scatters across the hardwood. She screams and no one answers. She cries and no one hears. She curses until she feels numb inside.

Then she remembers. A telescope. A full moon. The astronomy tower.

If she had said yes to him; if she had accepted his offer she would be on a date with him right now.

She would not be struggling to pick up the candy off the floor (because fuck it, those were tasty and it’s not like she has anything better to do at the moment).

She wonders how he makes them. If he pays as much attention to flavor as he does to it’s charm. She wonders if he stays up at night in the kitchen making lollipops and sugar cookies and she wonders if he’s at his shop right now.

Suddenly a sickeningly vile thought rushes through her head.

And she’s surprised to discover it only takes a few seconds to get from the astronomy tower to Weasley & Weasley in a ghost’s body.

The building is tall and colorful and a little too cartoon-ish for her personal taste. The door swings open as the night’s last customers walk in, she can see George standing at the counter and greeting them with a smile.

It’s strange how similar he and his twin look but she can tell; George is softer, sweeter, more of a go-with-the-flow kind of boy. Fred is louder and curious, insulting at times and actually belongs in the circus. Hell, he could be the ring leader. She’s caught for a moment envisioning a trapeze act and how great she would look in a tight black leotard before being interrupted by a coo-coo clock above her reading 9pm.

The shop is closing.

She quickly rushes in, not being seen by anyone and heads to the back of the store. Everything smells like bubblegum, she thinks.

There are countless ceiling-high shelves loaded with taffy and yo-yo’s, hand buzzers and charms galore. Charms to stop rainstorms, charms to grow facial hair, charms to help you pass tests.

And on the third shelf, under the charms labeled with a bold red letter G there is a pile of charms for ghosts. It seems they’ve made them in almost every form of sugary candy possible. She presses her middle finger to the edge of the wooden shelf and drags it along the faint layer of dust. Nothing unsettles, of course. The white glow of her fingers are mere shadows of the physical body she used to live in.

She can hear grunting, suddenly.

Deep heaves of breath come from the far corner of the large shop.

She walks—floats—over and finds Fred lifting and stocking boxes of what looks like comic superhero themed tarot cards on the highest ledge. A sudden sense of anger surges over her and she soars past the treats and toys, blowing them all off their shelves and onto the floor.

Fred sighs and purses his lips in aggravation.

"Pansy." He begins slowly picking up the boxes again. "What brings you here."

She sucks her teeth and raises a brow. "Some nice candy you gave me early . . ."

He looks regrettably terrified, she observes.

"Okay, I admit that was immature . . ." he says, seeming overly nervous. Like he wasn’t sure what his plan was after he gave her the candy.

"Oh, please." She huffs. "Everything you do is immature. You know all my friends warned me about you. ‘Fred Weasley’s such a player, Fred Weasley’s all about fun, Fred Weasley only wants a laugh.’"

"What? Who? Who’s saying that?" He rolls his eyes and there’s that beautiful smirk again; the one that drives her mad.

"Just give me an antidote or whatever works to turn me back into a girl!"

"You’re still a girl . . ." He teases. "Just not very . . . Mortal."

"Okay, what’ll it take? Just make me human again. This isn’t a joke anymore, it’s scaring me. How do you know I can be changed back?"

"Don’t worry, princess. I’ve got the countercharm." He ponders for a moment. "But—"

"What?" She heaves, knowing it’ll cost her.

"A date."

"Excuse me?"

"You have to go on a date with me."

She hesitates. "Where?"

"Anywhere you want. I don’t really care either way."

And she allows herself to think it, just for a quarter of a small second. She looks back to the kitchen behind him currently overflowing with cake pans and baking sheets and jam jars. She presses her lips together and her heart beats like a firework show.

"There." She says it like it’s the name of a really expensive car or her favorite brand of vodka. She feels alive with the thought of it on her skin. "I want you to teach me how to make them."

There is something in the way Fred looks at her then back at the kitchen then back at her. His lips are parted and his eyes can’t seem to stay on one thing.

"There." He confirms. The images of the two of them baking up jokes and treats and laughing over his extreme lack of recipes and only being able to tell her to eyeball the sugar, just splash in the red dye, throw in as much flavoring as you think it needs sucks the oxygen out of his brain and he knows he wouldn’t be able to resist her in such a small kitchen. The thought of teaching her how to mix a prank into a lollipop alone takes all the air out of his lungs.

This was honestly two of his favorite things asking to be put together: candy and Pansy Fucking Parkison, the girl he’s been fawning over for nearly a year now.

He laughs; a nervous type of sigh, she supposes.

"What?" She insists. "You don’t think I can make candy?"

"I think you’d have an aneurism. And it’s a disgusting mess in there. I keep telling George to clean it. He just ignores me. And. It gets warm in there, not a place for company. Or really any type of food being sold. Ha. The food district doesn’t even bother coming in here. Knows we’ve got cards up our sleeves. But trust me," he trails off.

Pansy pictures him helping her tie her apron around her waist and the two of them kneading cookie dough, his hands touching hers, and god, his arm muscles. This is a stupid excuse to get him to kiss her again and she knows it.

But she wonders what kissing a candyman would be like. She dreams of dating a boy made entirely of sugar and bad ideas.

"Pshh," She flails a hand and floats closer toward him until she’s just close enough to feel the heat of his breath pass through her. "Coward," she teases.

He smirks innocently and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"If I say okay," he starts. "You have to promise not to make fun of the way I bake."

He rips open a bag of periwinkle jaw breakers, takes one out and hands it to her. She gives him a questioning look, then realizes.

"Just smell it, you can’t hold anything as a ghost so it’s not meant to be ingested."

She smiles, sweetly, something Fred thought was physically impossible for her.

"Is that a yes?" She raises an eyebrow and flicks a strand of her bangs out of her eyes inquisitorially.

Adrenaline and fear pump through his veins as the alarm sounds and dogs start barking behind him and he hasn’t the faintest idea why but he runs inside the tiny art store and hides in a rather cozy-looking closet at the back of the shop.

Three police cars pull up moments later; sirens blaring and lights flashing.

They swarm inside the building and flip the lights on, he timidly glances through the cracks of the closet door and sees an officer touch the broken vase with the tip of his shoe.

Suddenly he’s aware of someone else’s breathing next to his ear; heavy and warm. There was another burglar in the shop, he realizes.

There’s another burglar … Here with him now.

The pit of his stomach feels void and like all the horror movies in the world couldn’t compare to this moment.

“Don’t say a word,” the voice whispers.

And it’s quiet.

Quieter than the hum of a dishwasher running at three in the afternoon. All he can think is what will happen to him if he’s caught? If he fails his mission, who will come after him?

He swallows and listens intently to the slow footsteps outside the door.

“You were here to steal something,” he whispers softly—more of a comment than a question.

“I said ‘don’t say a word’,” the man hisses and shoves him. The sound of Viktor’s polyester coat rustling makes them both cringe and they peak out of the slots in the door to assure no one’s heard.

The officers just walk slowly around and inspect the damage, write notes on tiny sheets of paper and sigh, probably annoyed or frustrated.

“I was gonna steal something too,” Viktor admits.

“Great to know we’re all burglars here.” The man—probably just over six feet—slowly sits down on the floor and Viktor follows.

“But why?” He says. “What were you stealing? Were you threatened too?” He sounds more offended and almost protective than curious.

“Threatened?” He scoffs. “I’m taking back what’s mine. I spent months bent over that canvas, I bet all the art in here was stolen.” He seems angry but the look in his eyes is empty, homesick, afraid. Viktor can tell he’s not a city boy.

Then.

Suddenly.

The door flies open and the bright yellow fluorescent lights shine down on the both of them. Cops point guns and orders are yelled at them. A hand seizes Viktor’s arm and pulls him up from the floor.

“Who are you boys? How’d you get in here?” A police officer demands.

No one says anything.

“I said ‘Who are you boys!’” She yells again.

“Charlie.” The other yells anxiously. “And it’s my fucking painting. I’m not stealing anything!”

“You’ll get your chance to speak later.” She warns.

Seeing him in better light now, the burglar seems shorter; less of a threat. But something still feels oddly dangerous about him. The way his lips curve and his eyes narrow in harsh acidity. His sharp jaw and freckled cheekbones are like stars—abysmal.

His hair is bright red—almost like cherries, highlighted with soft colors of papaya. His entire head is a fucking orchard of sensations Viktor needs to feel.

Who the hell even is this guy? He’s the type to create paintings adorned with perfect nimbus clouds and shades of violet but risk going to prison by breaking and entering.

“What’s your name?” The officer asks him.

“Viktor.” He mumbles. He realizes that in this moment he probably doesn’t sound like he usually might. Not like a boxer, certainly not like a criminal.

He sounds vulnerable.

But he’s accepted his destiny. He’s going to jail, for sure. He doesn’t understand why but he’s okay with that, no one’s going to be able to come after him or threaten him in jail, right? He’ll be fed, clothed, sheltered. His parents probably won’t even realize he’s gone.

He looks over to the young college-age boy standing next to him.

It’s a curious way to meet someone, he thinks. Like being buried with a stranger or doomed to the same gloomy fate.

They’re handcuffed and led to the back seat of a police car. The doors close and awkward silence ensues.

“What were you going to steal?” The boy—Charlie—suddenly asks.

“Your painting.” Viktor says, expecting to get a threat or a punch or something worse but instead he just laughs with pure hysteria like something is amusing and leans his head back. Viktor can see the top of a tattoo lining his collar bone; just slightly.

It’s a dragon.

He leans back as well and turns his head to face him. “Looks like we’re going to be jailmates, huh?”

The ginger stares back with gold saturating his irises and smiles with perfect recklessness sending chills up Viktor’s spine.