A/N: Okay this story is AU in the slightest bit. It takes place during GoF, but in this story Oliver Wood is still at Hogwarts and they don’t cancel Quidditch for the Triwizard Tournament. Everything else is pretty much the same as in the book. First person, Angelina’s POV.

The French, they are the source of my problems. The French have invaded Hogwarts and are using their bloody accents and form-fitting uniforms to mercilessly snap up any and all blokes in their paths. The boys here at Hogwarts are usually decent and occasionally intelligent guys, but ever since the Beauxbaton bimbos have arrived, they all walk around with their tongues hanging out of their mouths and dazed looks slapped across their faces.

There is a reason why Headmaster Dumbledore has allowed these French twits to stay at our school—the Triwizard Tournament. The tournament has also brought the strapping Durmstrang hunks from Bulgaria over, but I don’t much mind them. I mean come on, it’s a once and a lifetime kind of thing to come face to face with the one and only Viktor Krum. The man is a legend.

Along with giggling Parisians and insanely attractive Bulgarians, the Triwizard Tournament has brought around the Yule Ball. And let me tell you, heads are rolling—others besides that of Sir Nicholas. Everyone is scrambling to find dates to the ball and that is how this whole mess began…

“A Yule Ball, huh?” Lee mused, “It’s about time Hogwarts came up with a valid excuse for us to pick up girls.”

“Yeah but we better find us some lucky ladies to sweep off their feet pretty quickly, or all the good ones will be taken,” George warned.

“Don’t worry,” Fred laughed, “I mean have you seen all the gorgeous women around here lately? There will be more than enough to go around.”

“You say ‘lately’ as if we weren’t here before,” Alicia joked, winking at me and Katie as she elbowed Fred. The boys laughed along with us, fearing they would say something argumentative. You see, we Quidditch girls tend to have wicked tempers along with surprising strength. Best not to anger any of us.

“Well not like the three of us tossers have a chance with Miss Bell here anyway,” Lee teased. “Not when good old Captain Wood’s got his eye on her.”

“Oh sod off,” Katie laughed, blushing enough so that the redness in her cheeks rivaled that of Fred and George’s hair.

“Speak of the devil, here he comes now,” I said, seeing Wood stride down the hall towards us. He wasn’t smiling, although he never does. He always has the same stern expression, so the only way you can get even a glimpse into what he’s thinking or feeling is by looking into his eyes. Katie tends to do that a lot—hell that girl would drown in those gorgeous green eyes of his if Alicia and I weren’t always there to yank her back into reality.

“Quidditch practice this afternoon, three o’clock. Alright?” Wood told us all.

“What a surprise!” Fred exclaimed sarcastically.

“Because it’s not like we’ve been having practice at three o’clock every day for the past four years,” George said, rolling his eyes.

“Well I just wanted to make sure none of you thought that practice was cancelled because of this Yule Ball business,” Wood replied.

“Please Oliver, you wouldn’t cancel practice even if You-Know-Who sent an army of killer snakes to terrorize the school,” Alicia said.

“Practice makes perfect and that’s what we’ve got to be if we want to stand a chance against Ravenclaw in three weeks,” he told us. “Their new Chasers are wicked fast. Anyway, someone tell Potter too.”

“Will do, Captain,” I said, saluting him. Wood heaved a sigh, probably wondering why we weren’t all psycho Quidditch fanatics like him. I mean, I love the sport too—playing it, watching it, but I don’t eat, breathe, and live it. That’s just unhealthy. But now Wood has two obsessions: Quidditch and Katie. And I’m not sure which one is worse.

Anyway, practice was especially grueling that day and seemed to drag on for hours. Actually it did drag on for hours. It was about nine when Wood called it a day. And yet those damn French bimbos were still roaming the grounds. Of course the guys just had to notice them. And when I say ‘the guys’ I mean the Weasley twins. Wood was too busy flirting with Katie to even see the Beauxbatons and Harry said something about having to go find that Ravenclaw seeker, Cho Chang. If Wood hadn’t been so busy with Katie, he probably would’ve forbidden him from ‘fraternizing with the enemy’. Like I said, the man is obsessed.

Fred and George claim that they just had to take their shirts off because they were so damn overheated from the six hours of nonstop Quidditch drills. I have to wonder if it had anything to do with those blondes that were eying them flirtatiously and giggling like they always do. Anyway, Alicia and I ended up with a full view of the twin’s well defined muscles which were dripping with sweat. And if I wasn’t sharing said view with said giggling French girls, then maybe I would’ve been able to enjoy it.

Because seriously, it was like they were a couple of Greek Gods that just stepped out of the clouds. Seriously. I mean Wood is fairly dreamy himself, if he wasn’t a Quidditch Nazi. And Quidditch has definitely done Potter’s body good since he got on the team. At first he was just this pale scrawny little thing, but now…Well let’s just say I can’t blame Romilda Vane for stalking him. But seriously, the Beaters have to be the strongest and so their bodies trump all others. Just looking at those Weasleys, I knew my eyes must’ve been bulging out of my head and most likely there was a puddle of drool at my feet.

“Bonjour Mademoiselles,” George greeted them with a pathetic attempt at a French accent.

Now I’ve known the Weasley twins for six years, six long years in which I was the victim of many a prank set up by those two. So I was really surprised when I found myself jealous upon realizing that Fred was about to ask one of those girls out. I’m not one to deal with feelings though, I take action. And so I grabbed the Quaffle from where it lay in the grass and hurled it at Fred’s head.

Luckily no one actually saw me aiming for his head. Otherwise I might’ve been grouped as an obsessive lovesick moron along with Wood and Romilda.

And I’m not an obsessive lovesick moron.

“Oops!” I cried with mock surprise. “Sorry about that, the ball kinda slipped out of my hands there.”

“Erm—it’s alright,” Fred replied, rubbing the back of his head and wincing.

“Wouldn’t mind helping us put away all the gear, would you?” I asked the twins sweetly. Both of them looked over longingly to the Beaxbaton girls before groaning and helping me and Alicia put all the balls and brooms away.

Wood and Katie had run off to God knows where, and Harry had run off long before them. Alicia told me she had an essay for Snape due the next day and hurried off to the library, and George had somehow slipped out in hopes of catching up with the Beaxbaton bimbos. So it was just me and Fred. In the smelly team room. Alone. Together.

He still wasn’t wearing any shirt, although I can’t say it was something to complain about. For some reason, I didn’t feel like myself. I felt awkward around him, and I don’t know why.

“I think that’s it,” Fred said, packing away the last of the brooms.

“It better be,” I groaned, “Because I’m about to pass out, I’m so exhausted.”

“In that case, I suppose I’ll just have to carry you back to the castle,” Fred replied with a wicked smile.

“What the—“

And before I knew it, Fred had picked me up and slung me over his shoulder. I screamed like a little girl, which by the way is a completely normal side effect having your feet lose contact with the ground with no warning.

I kicked my legs and threw punches at his back as he carried me up the hill, demanding, “Fred Weasley put me down this instant!”

I don’t know why I was fighting it. It was actually quite lovely feeling his arms holding me up, and holding on tight. Ah yes, but then all the blood rushed to my head and I felt rather sick. Romantic moment officially over about then.

Once we’d reached the Entrance Hall, he set me down again, giving me the most adorable grin.

So I punched him in the stomach, which probably hurt my hand more than it hurt him.

“Damn it, Ange!” he swore, “What was that for?”

“Okay, now we’re even,” I told him with a smile.

“Even? I don’t remember ever punching you,” Fred chuckled dryly. “I know not to hit a lady.”

“Well now you know not to throw a lady over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes either,” I quipped.

“I guess you really do learn something new everyday,” he said sarcastically, rubbing his chin.

Just as I opened my mouth to reply, McGonagall stormed over to us with one of her death glares. She usually reserves those for Fred and George, though I do remember seeing her give one to Draco Malfoy once.

Anyway, her glare had me cowering in fear, but Fred seemed to have grown an immunity to them. He winked at me before turning to her and saying grandly,

“Good evening Professor! Wonderful night for flying, don’t you think?”

“Mr. Weasley!” she barked harshly, “This is a school, and I will not have you gallivanting about half-naked like some kind of hooligan!”

Fred raised an eyebrow at her. “Gallivanting? Hooligan?” he asked skeptically.

It was all I had not to burst out laughing. McGonagall heard me snigger and gave me the death glare again. And returned to my cowering, not finding anything funny anymore.

Withdrawing her wand, she conjured up a rather hideous plaid sweater and handed it to Fred. “Five points from Gryffindor for the back talk. And for Merlin’s sake, don’t let me catch you in the nude again,” she snapped before stalking off again.

“I’m wearing pants!” Fred called after her indignantly. “And shoes!” he added as an afterthought. Grumpily, he pulled the sweater over his head.

Personally, I preferred him as the ‘half-naked hooligan’, but somehow, he still managed to look cute in the ugly sweater.

“It’s itchy,” he moaned.

“At least you didn’t get detention,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, Wood would kill me if I missed Quidditch practice for detention,” he replied, “And then McGonagall would kill me if I missed detention for Quidditch practice.”

“Bit of a lose-lose situation there,” I chuckled.

“You’d miss me if those two crazy Scots killed me, right?” Fred asked me, pouting, although there was still that same old glint of humor in his eyes.

“Of course I would,” I told him, “But then again…We’ve always got George.”

Clutching his chest, he cried, “You’re breaking my heart, love!”

“There’s times when I’ve been tempted to break a few of your bones,” I replied cheekily, “But never your heart.”

Putting his arm around my shoulder, he laughed, “How touching.”

As we began walking up to Gryffindor Tower, we talked about who would win the Quidditch World Cup this year. As always, I defended my precious Holyhead Harpies, and Fred insisted that the Irish were bound to win with their new Keeper.

“The Harpies have a great Keeper too,” I argued, “Need I remind you that last time they played the Tutshill Tornados she didn’t let a single goal in?”

“That’s only because the Tornados Chasers are a bunch of wankers,” Fred scoffed.

“You’re full of excuses,” I said, rolling my eyes at him.

“All I’m saying is that they’re girls. It’s physically impossible for them to—“

He broke of mid-sentence, one of those dazed looks coming across his face as his jaw hung open. Surely enough, I turned to see yet another one of those damn Beauxbatons.

“Hello? Fred?” I called, waving my hands in front of his face.

“Erm, what?” he asked, snapping out of his trance.

“You were saying that it was physically impossible for the Harpies win the Cup,” I reminded him, annoyed.

“Oh right…yeah,” he said distractedly. “Hey Ange, I’ll meet up with you later in the common room, okay?”

Feeling disappointed, I merely said, “Yeah whatever.”

Fred, being a bloke and therefore having a one track mind, ran off after the shapely French girl, leaving me to ponder what the hell was wrong with me.

I was angry, jealous even, which was downright ridiculous. Fred and George are my best friends, practically brothers. Now I’ve never had an actual brother, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to wonder how soft his lips are, or want to run your fingers through his hair, or…yeah, definitely sure none of that his brotherly affection.

This is not good. This is not good at all. I can’t have a thing for Fred!

Why? That’s a good question. He’s obviously gorgeous and funny and smart and…Again, this is not good.

Fred is my friend, and being anything else could be unbelievably awkward. And if we were anything else and then broke up, well that would be unbelievably more awkward.

I’ll never hear the end of it from Alicia and Katie. Oh yes, they will mock me until the end of time. They’ll say how cute we’d be together and how bloody perfect we are for each other. That’s a load of bullocks though. I could tell them I had feelings for Snape and they’d say the same exact thing.

And besides, Wood has a strict ‘no dating teammates’ rule, which is probably why he sticks to merely flirting with Katie rather than snogging the daylights out of her like he obviously wants to. Although, I’m not afraid of Wood. Except when he gives out his death glares which rival those of McGonagall.

I blame the French for this! If they hadn’t did whatever it is they do to make Fred fall all over them, I wouldn’t be this jealous raving maniac that I’ve apparently transformed into this past week.

What have they got that I don’t, anyway?

I could take any one of them in a duel, hands down. Yeah, those Beauxbaton bimbos better watch their step…

And now here I am, pathetically waiting up for Fred in the Gryffindor common room. Hell, I don’t even know what I’m doing. This is not me, some girl who can’t stop thinking about some bloke. I’m not the kind of person who waits around; I’m impulsive and impatient.

In fact, when I was ten I ate my entire birthday cake myself because I couldn’t wait any longer. I threw up afterwards, so it really wasn’t the greatest birthday but—Well all that is far from the point.

Bloody hell. Fred just walked in through the portrait hole and I feel like the butterflies in my stomach are trying to escape. I’ve never felt those butterflies before. What is happening to me? This is all happening so fast, and yet I suppose it’s really been building up for the past six years. Just like me to be so bloody stupid as to not realize it until now.

I stand up, but feel like I should sit down again because my knees are about to buckle. I really got to get a hold of myself…

“I don’t want you gawking at those French tarts,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

“What?” he asks, a bewildered expression on his face.

Walking over to him with all the confidence that I can muster up, I say, “I want you to look at me instead.”

Oh gosh. Here comes the impulsive, chocolate cake-eating ten year old. Without even thinking, I put my hands on either side of his face and lean up to kiss him.

Bloody hell.

His lips are warm and sweet, although just slightly chapped. At first, he doesn’t respond at all—I suppose it was a right shocker though—but then his lips move eagerly with mine. It’s slow, as if he’s savoring the kiss. I feel his tongue tease my lower lip, and without hesitance, I open my mouth.

It’s amazing. It’s mind blowing. It’s not what I thought it would be.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m in heaven right now. But somehow, this is not how I imagined it would be like to snog Fred Weasley. I thought he’d be more insistent, fiercer. I thought he’d rush to deepen the kiss, be impulsive, like me.

Pulling away, I look him in the eyes. He seems a bit dazed and is smiling goofily. I like that I’m the one that put that look on his face this time.

“Wow,” he says, coming back to his senses.

I laugh nervously, not quite knowing what to say.

“That was…unexpected,” he decides, although the roguish glint in his eyes tells me that he enjoyed it nearly as much as I did.

“Yeah, I’m not exactly sure what came over me, but Fred, I think—“

“Fred?” he repeats dumbly.

Oh. My. God.

My mouth goes dry and I think I might be breaking out in hives.

“You’re not Fred, are you?” I ask him hoarsely.

“If I lie and say yes, will I get another kiss?” George asks me cheekily.

I’ve done it again. I was impulsive and impatient, so much so that I didn’t even check to see that I had the right twin. And now, much like my tenth birthday, I feel rather sick.

“Damn French,” I mutter to myself.

“What’d you just say?” George chuckles.

“You know, you two really ought to wear name tags or something!” I snap. “How the hell is anyone supposed to be able to tell you apart?”

“For future reference, Fred’s got a freckle on his arse that I don’t have,” George so helpfully informed me, “And if you go snog him like you just snogged me, maybe you’ll get to see it sometime…”

He gave me a playful wink before walking up to his dormitory with a certain bounce in his step.

Note to self: Hex George’s balls off next chance I get.

Other note to self: Make large, color-coded, nametags for Fred and George.