Nothing like mass quantities of chocolate to cheer you up when you’re having a bad day. And trust me, I am having a bad day. The worst. Ever.

Okay, so I’m exaggerating. A little, not much. So what?

Anyway, I was about to reach for yet another Honeyduke’s chocolate bonbon when George bloody Weasley skipped down the stairs and into the common room. And I’ll have you know, that if my fingers hadn’t been all sticky and chocolaty, I would’ve grabbed my wand and hexed his balls off. But as it was, I licked my fingers instead.

“You’re still here?” he chuckled, raising an eyebrow at all the candy wrappers that surrounded me.

“Should I be somewhere else?” I snapped.

“Well, I just thought you’d be off professing your undying love for Fred about now,” he replied casually, taking a seat next to me on the couch.

“I’m not in love with him,” I protested, “I just happen to like him an abnormally large amount all of a sudden and can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Oh, my mistake then,” George said sarcastically as he grabbed for one of my chocolate bars.

I smacked him.

“Mine,” I barked at him.

“If I was Fred, would you let me have one?” he teased, waggling his eyebrows at me.

I smacked him again.

“Will you quit hitting me?” he whined, rubbing his sore arm.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“Just out of curiosity,” George began slowly, “Why Fred?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, biting off the head of a chocolate frog. I did not like where this was going…

“I mean, why does he suddenly drive you crazy, but I don’t?” he asked, staring hard at me.

What kind of question is that? How am I possibly supposed to answer that? Seriously!

Due to my apparent lack of witty retorts, I stuffed the rest of the chocolate frog in my mouth. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It was either that or gape at him like a deer in headlights.

A devilish grin came across his warm and sweet, although slightly chapped lips. It’s never good when a Weasley twin gets that look on his face.

“Unless I do suddenly drive you crazy,” George said, waiting for me to confirm or deny it.

DENY!

“Oh deflate your ego, will you?” I retorted.

“So it wouldn’t have you all hot and bothered if I sat a little closer to you?” he asked puckishly.

He scooted closer to me on the couch, watching me intently for any signs of weakness. I felt his fingers graze me thigh as he put his other arm around me.

I stood my ground.

“I’m neither hot nor bothered,” I told him defiantly.

Slowly but surely, he kept leaning into me. I kept leaning further and further back. And then he was practically on top of me. I raised my eyebrows at him, as if asking just how far this was going to go.

“You wouldn’t swoon if I said something poetic right now, would you?” George asked me, his fingers brushing my cheek.

“Doubt it,” I replied, sniggering a bit.

“And if I were to kiss you right here?” he whispered in my ear, pressing his finger to my neck.

I kicked and giggled furiously. You see, I’m dangerously ticklish.

Just poke my stomach and I’ll burst out into peals of laughter. Or if you’re feeling especially daring, intentionally tickle me, go for the armpits. I’ll piss my pants. And then I’ll hex you into next Tuesday, of course…

Anyway, George’s whispers tickled my ear, and his finger my neck.

This is how he ended up rolling off me, and with a resounding thump, landing on the floor. Once I was done laughing hysterically, I looked down to see him in the fetal position, biting his lip and wincing in pain.

“George?” I asked tentatively. “You alright, there?”

“Just peachy,” he wheezed. “But I can’t say the same for little George.”

“Huh?”

I’ll admit I’m a bit slow sometimes.

Wait for it…

“Oh my God! George, I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed, rushing to his side.

Note to self: No need to hex George’s balls off anymore. I think this will do.

“Do you want me to take you to the hospital wing?”

“What do expect Pomfrey to do?” he squeaked.

Good point. I hardly felt like explaining to Madam Pomfrey how I accidentally put George’s ability to conceive children at risk.

Bloody brilliant. This day just keeps getting better and better doesn’t it?

You know, before I thought this was all the French bimbos’ faults, but right now I’d like to officially place fifty percent of the blame on George.

Seeing that he wasn’t likely to move anytime soon, I lay down on the carpet next to him, staring up at the ceiling.

“You know Fred pretty well,” I mused unthinkingly.

“Yeah, I only shared a womb with him for nine months,” he replied sardonically, “And a bedroom with him for sixteen years.”

He’s being modest. The two of them really have some sort of telepathy thing going on. Like, if we’re at dinner and Fred needs the salt, he doesn’t even ask for it; George just passes it to him. Freaky, right?

Well I think it is. No one pays attention to my sodium needs…

And the whole finishing each other’s sentences thing? I mean really, how do they do it? I think I’ll start getting Alicia to finish my sentences for me, just to freak them out. And I’ll get her to pass me the salt too, while I’m at it.

“How do you think he’ll react when I tell him?” I asked sheepishly.

Letting out a long sigh, he glanced over at me with an almost sympathetic look in his eye.

“He’ll probably be thrilled at first,” George told me quietly, “But then he’ll be worried because he wouldn’t ever want to ruin his friendship with you. And then, he’ll get over that whole noble deal and have his hands all over you.”

I laughed, liking the sound of that. Suddenly, I didn’t know why I was sitting in the common room, moping and binging on chocolate. It was time to take action, I decided.

“That’s it,” I said determinedly, getting to my feet again, “I’m going to go find him and tell him. Come on.”

“Why do I have to come?” George moaned, finally managing to move out of his fetal position.

“Damage control,” I replied in a no-nonsense tone as I grabbed his hand and pulled him up, dragging him through the portrait hole. “If I chicken out at the last minute, or if Fred doesn’t take it so well, it is your job to intervene.”

“And if things do work out and you two start sucking face, is it still my job to intervene?” George asked, “Or should I just take pictures to document the magical moment for generations to come?”

I glared at him, but no effect. If only I had a death glare like McGonagall or Wood. I should practice that. Maybe you’ve got to be Scottish to do it though. Then I’d just be wasting my time…Oh well, it’s worth a shot.

“Okay, if by some miracle everything goes right,” I sighed, “I’ll wink at you, and that’s your signal to leave.”

“Alright, but if I wink at you, that’s your signal to take off your shirt and do the hokey pokey,” George replied cheekily.

I glared again. Nothing. Damn it!

The thing about Hogwarts is it’s bloody huge. Not only that, but with all the stupid moving staircases and locked doors, you tend to get really lost really fast. The first years—bless their souls—wander wide-eyed around the castle for weeks before finally figuring out the how to get to their classes on time without any major bodily harm.

As embarrassing as it is to admit it, George and I—a couple of sixth years for Merlin’s sake—were hopelessly lost. It’s not that we don’t know our way around, but when you’re looking for someone and you’ve got absolutely no idea where they are, things get tricky.

“Fred’s probably back at the common room by now,” I groaned.

George stared at me incredulously. “Do you seriously expect a Weasley twin to be in for the night at—“ he paused to check his watch, “Ten thirty?”

I rolled my eyes at him, the stupid git. First, he goes around looking exactly like Fred, having me accidentally snog him; second he tries to be all suave and sexy and has me accidentally knee him in the balls; and now he’s gotten me completely bloody lost!

I’d like to once again, officially shift the blame around. Sixty percent George, forty percent Beauxbaton bimbos.

“This is hopeless,” I spat angrily, kicking a suit of armor to demonstrate my pure rage at the moment, since I hadn’t quite yet mastered my death glare.

Shit. Now I’m lost and my foot hurts like hell.

Fifty percent George’s fault, forty percent French tarts fault, ten percent ruddy suit of armor’s fault.

“Calm down, Ange,” George said as I hopped up and down madly, holding onto my throbbing foot. “Just erm…close your eyes for a second.”

I raise an eyebrow at him suspiciously. It’s not that I don’t trust him, but…Well, yeah, I don’t trust him.

“Why?” I asked him, putting my hands on my hips.

“Look, do you want me to get us un-lost or not?” he shot back. “Close your eyes then.”

I sighed a closed my eyes, wondering why the hell I had to in the first place. I could hear parchment rustling, and then George saying,

“I solemnly swear—“

“Who are you talking to?” I asked him warily.

“No one, just myself,” he said quickly, but then I heard him whispering again.

Sneakily, I peeked, opening one of my eyes to see him hunched over and old wrinkled map.

“Okay, well Fred’s up on the second floor, and if we make a right and two lefts then…” George muttered to himself—although I could hear him clearly. “Oh shit.”

“What?” I said, quickly closing both eyes again.

There was silence for a split second, and I could practically hear the gears turning in George’s head. “You were right,” he lied, “Fred’s back in the common room. Let’s go.”

“But you just said—“

“Mischief managed,” he said, forgetting to whisper this time. “You can open your eyes again, Ange.”

Without waiting for him, I began to march down the hall, taking the first right.

“Wait!” George shouted, running after me. “The common room’s this way!”

“I’m not going to the common room,” I said resolutely, “I’m going to find Fred.”

I didn’t know why he was trying to stop me. This was what the mission had been, right? I hadn’t walked around in circles for twenty minutes just so I could go back to the common room, although I was sorely missing my beloved chocolate bonbons right about then. Those things are like little drops of heaven, yumm…

Ah but, I’m imagining that Fred’s kisses are even better than bonbons, which is why there’s no way in hell I’m going back to the commons with George. I will not settle for little drops of heaven when I can have Fred-sized drops of heaven.

Anyway, I knew that given the chance, George would catch up with me and stop me, which wouldn’t be hard. He’s quite strong really. I think I mentioned the bit about being a Beater by day, Greek God by night? So it would be no problem for him to throw me over his shoulder—like his twin had earlier that day—and forcibly carry me away with him. I didn’t give him that chance though; I started to run.

“Angelina!” George shouted as he ran after me, gaining on me.

Making a sharp left, I found myself at the top of one of those stupid moving staircases, the damn thing that got us bloody lost in the first place!

I could stop, and wait for it or…

Throwing caution—and probably half my sanity—to the wind, I hopped onto the smooth marble banister and slid down. I probably should’ve been concerned about falling off, down hundreds of feet only to break every bloody bone in my body upon landing, but I suppose the thought never occurred to me.

I was going fast, so much so that the wind on my face made my eyes tear and everything was one big blur. It felt a lot like flying on my broom, racing Katie and Alicia to the end of the pitch and back. For a few brief, shining moments, I was exhilarated, forgetting about everything else.

But all good things must come to an end, and that includes staircase railings.

I didn’t even see it coming.

When I was a kid, my dad would take me to the park and let me ride on the swings. I was an adventurous little tyke, and just as the swing went up as high as I could go, I would jump off and fly into Dad’s arms.

Well this was kind of like that.

Except I was sliding down a banister, not swinging on a swing.

And I’m probably a good forty pounds heavier than I was back then. Forty-five because of those damn chocolate bonbons.

And because—thank Merlin—Severus Snape is not my dad.

That’s right. Just as I am going down at full speed, I slide off the end of the banister and crash into bloody Professor Snape. The horror.

Now that I think about it, this is really nothing like going to the park with dad…

Aaah! Snape’s death glare is worse than McGonagall and Wood’s combined! Those beady little eyes, black as night, boring into me as if trying to set my very soul on fire. Oh gosh, this is how I’m going to die, isn’t it?

“Miss Johnson,” he began in his creepy monotone, “If you would please get the hell off me.”

Just then I realized the position we are in, and there is no other word for it than awkward. He’s flat on his back, looking quite pissed off, my legs straddled across his chest as my own chest is precariously close to his beady little eyes. Bloody hell, why did I not wear a turtleneck today? I should’ve worn a scarf too, just for good measure.

“Sorry Professor,” I mumbled, hastily scrambling to my feet. When he wasn’t looking, I did up an extra button on my blouse.

“Fifty points Gryffindor,” he said, “For reckless behavior, the ambush of a teacher, and because I’m in a bad mood to begin with. Fair enough?”

“Sounds about right,” I replied sheepishly, not meeting his eye for fear of getting his death glare again.

“And I’ll see you in detention every night for a week, starting tomorrow,” he added, his lips curling into a sneer. And with an evil flourish of his evil cloak of evilness, he walked away, muttering something about not being paid enough.

I think I need to take a shower…I’ve got Snape cooties, gross.

And here comes George, sauntering down the steps with an easy smile on his face. Oh right, I was supposed to be running from him. Damn it.

“Smooth landing,” he said, before bursting out into laughter. He clutched his sides, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Sod off,” I growled as I smacked him for the third time that night. And yet, he still couldn’t stop laughing.

I tried my death glare. No effect.

Oh! Maybe I’ll ask Snape to give me lessons while I’m in detention.

Somehow, despite George’s obnoxious laughter, I heard it. Fred’s name. I surmised that he must’ve been somewhere in the immediate area. I looked left. I looked right. He was nowhere to be found. Wait! I heard it again.

Turning around, I saw a broom closet behind me. I grabbed the door handle, and I think I knew even before I opened the door that it wouldn’t be Filch moaning Fred’s name.

I should’ve expected this. I shouldn’t be surprised at all. In fact, I should’ve been able to gaze into one of Trelawney’s blasted crystal balls and predict that this would happen the minute those damn French bimbos arrived at Hogwarts.

“Shit.” I said hoarsely. “Bloody hell, I’m sorry you two.”

Why am I apologizing you ask? Oh well that would be because I just intruded on Fred necking some tart in a broom closet.

This calls for another shift of blame. Damn, I’m really getting sick of this. Alright, seventy-five percent Beauxbaton bimbos faults, twenty-five percent Fred’s fault.

Fred looks really surprised to see me, while the blonde Parisian seems to be vaguely annoyed. Wait a second, no it couldn’t be. That bitch is trying to give me a death glare!!

Well take this you cow! I glare back, and I definitely think I’ve improved a bit because she stops glaring back. Aha! I win.

Oh right, I’m still standing in the doorway. And Fred still has his hands on her boobs. And the cow is still looking vaguely annoyed.

I will now take this moment to come to my senses and shut the door.

“I’m sorry you had to er, see that,” George says to me, now that he’s done laughing his arse off. I suppose he knew they were in there, which is probably why he tried to stop me.

Note to self: Do not run one way when George is shouting at me to go the other way.

“I feel like such an idiot,” I sigh.

George puts his arm around me and murmurs, “You’re not an idiot. You’re just a girl who likes a guy an abnormally large amount all of a sudden and can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Same thing, really,” I laugh hollowly.

Just then, the cow emerges from the broom closet looking disheveled. Fred follows her out a few seconds later. He doesn’t follow her as she walks down the corridor, smoothing out her bloody form-fitting skirt. Instead, he walks over to me and George.

His lips are red and swollen, and there’s a telltale hickey on his neck, a few inches below his left ear. His hair, which I imagined running my fingers through, seems to already have been tampered with and is sticking up at odd ends. Bloody brilliant.

“Hello,” he says brightly, “Is there something you needed, Ange?”

I’m not sure I needed anything, but there were definitely things I wanted from him. My knees are threatening to buckle.

What’s happened to me? Where’s the impulsive chocolate-cake eating ten year old that snogged George? Why can’t I find the words to say now? I’m pathetic. I want to curl up in a corner with my bonbons and suffer death by chocolate.

“Damage control,” I hiss at George, elbowing him urgently.

He smiled at me, but shook his head. He nudged me forward, closer to Fred. His eyes sparkled with encouragement, as if telling me to go for it.

“I’d just been thinking,” I tell him weakly, “About this whole Yule Ball thing.”

Fred’s eyebrows rise up just a bit. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, and I…” I trail off for a second before regaining my confidence. “You know me, Fred. I’m not usually like this. I don’t stammer, and I don’t get nervous. But lately I haven’t been myself, and I think it’s because of you.”

Furrowing his brow, Fred looks confused. It’s adorable. “I don’t understand,” he says, “Did I do something wrong?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see George roll his eyes.

I laugh and begin to feel like my old self again. “No, of course not. What I’m trying to say is, do you want to go to the Yule Ball together? That is, if you’re not with that Beauxbaton girl, I didn’t quite catch her name.”

“Me neither,” Fred says thoughtfully, as if trying to remember. I smack him for being such a…such a bloke. Can’t even remember the cow’s name! Stupid sexist womanizing bloke. Gorgeous, funny, charming, stupid sexist womanizing bloke.

His eyes widen all of a sudden, and he cocks his head at me.

I suppose he’s just realized what I said.

“You? And me?” he asks incredulously.

I nod meekly.

A smile breaks out across his mouth as he says, “Yes, I think I’d like that.”

We’re staring into each other’s eyes, all happily ever after like, and I realize that George is still standing there. I wink at him…I wink at him again…And again.

For Merlin’s sake George!

“Oh right,” he says, finally getting the message, “That’s my cue to take my shirt off and do the—“

“Goodbye George,” I say firmly.

He leaves, thank God.

And now Fred and I are alone. Together.

He’s looking at me differently. Not like he used to look at me, but not like one of the French tarts either. I like it.

I want more than anything for him to close the distance between us, but there’s one thing stopping me.

“You’ll remember my name, won’t you?” I ask him cheekily.

“What?”

“If I were to kiss you right now,” I say to him, “Would you forget my name?”

He smiles at me, and I think my heart just melted. Melted right in my chest.

“I could never forget who you are Ange,” Fred tells me, “Whether you’re my best friend or something more…”

His fingers brush lightly against my cheek. My brain has just turned to mush.

His hands rest on my hips, finding themselves quite at home there. Although my heart has melted and my brain is mush, I’m still fully functioning and easily move my hands to his chest, grabbing hold of the front of his robes. I pull him down to me, and I swear I feel a spark just as our lips meet. Fred moves forward, pinning my body against the wall as his mouth fiercely moves in sync with mine. I bite his lip, then he slips his tongue into my mouth, which quite possibly set off fireworks all around us.

Not that I would know. A heard of angry tuba-playing centaurs could parade down the corridor and I wouldn’t know it.

It’s amazing. It’s mind blowing. It’s everything I hoped it would be.

He pulls away, and I’m instantly going through Fred withdrawal.

“You taste like chocolate,” he informs me, licking his lips. Damn bonbons. “I like it.” Thank you bonbons!

“You snog even better than George,” I sigh dazedly.

Oh shit.

“What?” he asks me, not sure he heard right.

“Nothing,” I quickly say.

“You kissed George?” he asks. He seems more surprised than angry.

“What was that French girl’s name?” I shot back.

“Touché,” he sniggered.

And me, being the impulsive chocolate cake eating, Weasley twin kissing, lovesick moron that I am, reunite my lips with his and finally take advantage of the opportunity to run my fingers through his hair.

Heaven. And not just little drops of it either.

Note to self: Buy Fred a lifetime supply of chocolate bonbons.