AN: This fic was originally written for FWHG Last Drabble Writer Standing. The prompt was I'm Singing in the Rain (first person pov, mention of rain).

Two Hours In The Rain

I blink, struggling to ignore the prisms of light refracting in the drops of water clung to my eyelashes. A pedestrian rushes by, newspaper held over their head in attempt to stay dry.

I can't believe he's done this to me.

I never should have said yes. I should have followed my instincts and seen his repeated requests as the jokes they were.

I never knew he could be so cruel.

I'd believed him. After much resisting and insisting, I'd forced myself to open my eyes to Fred Weasley, and all of the possibilities.

I'd liked what I'd seen.

Three long months, he asked me out nearly every opportunity he got. Even though I knew it was foolish, and that I'd only hurt myself in the end, I began to imagine and dream.

In waking hours, I began to notice.

He's good looking, with a natural boyish charm so many men struggle to attain. I couldn't tell why it was an attraction to me, when I value maturity above all else, but I suppose it's a desire to return to days of youth, and all the years I missed out on just being a kid during Voldemort's return. You can't change the past, but if you're lucky, you can at least make up for it. So here I am, alone in the park on a rainy day, trying to convince my feet it's time to give up and go home.

I don't want to go.

I never should have let him choose the place to meet. If I'd been thinking clearly, I'd have pointed out London's propensity for rain, and suggested a cafe or some other warm, sheltered place. Still, I never could have predicted a downpour like this.

I never would have guessed he'd leave me standing here, cold, wet and alone either.

I rub at my eyes, convinced that its rain I'm wiping away, and that I hadn't really let myself fall for him. That I wasn't looking forward to seeing his carefree smile, or wondering what his auburn hair looks like in the rain; or what it feels like. Who am I kidding? He's relaxing at home, or out with his mates, laughing it up.

Right now, his hair doesn't know what wet is.

I heave a sigh, tugging at the dripping wet curls I'd put so much effort into before I'd left. Not that he'd care, because he's not the sort to put physical appearance as a priority. I thought it'd be nice though.

I hate wasted effort.

Casting one last glance down the empty street, I pick up my waterlogged bag and turn, thinking of warm baths and hot cocoa. The body I bump into radiates the warmth I'm seeking, and it takes me a moment to gather myself and pull back.

"Didn't think you'd still be waiting."

I look up, and I'm certain the surprise is evident on my face, because he drops his look of concern and I'm suddenly confronted by the full power of Fred Weasley's smile.

"I knew you were stubborn," he teases, brushing the back of his fingers along my jaw, "but who knew you had the patience of a saint?"

I smile then, despite the cold, and my dripping hair, and the wet clothes clinging to my skin.

Suddenly none of that matters.

"You waited three months for me," I whisper. "The least I can do is give you two hours in the rain."

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