Description
Gryffindor's cheers were still echoing through the stadium when I saw him striding toward me, broom in hand, the familiar cocky grin plastered on his face. Fred Weasley. Of course, he had to rub it in. I could already feel my pulse quickening-part anger, part... something else I didn't want to acknowledge. Gryffindor had just beaten Ravenclaw. My house had lost. And to make it worse, Fred had been brilliant during the match. My irritation only grew as I saw the way he practically glowed with confidence, his red and gold scarf billowing around his neck as he approached me. I hated losing. Especially to him. I crossed my arms, my Ravenclaw scarf feeling heavy around my shoulders. "What do you want, Weasley? Haven't you had enough fun for one day?" Fred stopped right in front of me, still breathing heavily from the game. His hair was a windswept mess, and his eyes, bright and mischievous, sparkled as they met mine. There was something dangerous about the way he looked at me-something that made my heart skip a beat, though I tried to ignore it. "Not quite," he said, his voice lower than usual, and that smile of his deepened, almost predatory. "You know what this means." There was a tension in the air that felt different from all our usual bickering. It was thick, almost electric. Before I could open my mouth to respond-probably with some biting comment-Fred moved. One second, I was standing there, glaring up at him, and the next, he was pulling me into him, his hand sliding to the small of my back, and his lips crashed down onto mine. --
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