Fred;

"Nonsense," my mothers warm voice brimming with pride encouraged me when I didn't want to even step foot into the family tent, "you won the very first game, we're celebrating," she'd insist, "don't make me drag you in here by the ear, Fred Gideon Weasley—" that sweetness turned warning in a matter of seconds, it was mothers gift.

The very last thing that I wanted to do was celebrate my win. The Fred that my family knew and loved would jump at the chance but all I really wanted was to settle in my tent—my personal one, not the team's tent—and get completely plastered alone.

Was it sad? Abso-fucking-lutely. Did I care? No.

But if I denied a celebratory party in my honour, someone was bound to sniff me out. Start asking what's wrong and if that got back to George he wouldn't give up until he knew every dark and deprived thought swirling around in my decaying head.

So what choice did I have but to plaster on a smile and follow my mother inside the family tent that blared with the popping of party poppers—a muggle invention that my father had found on his travels. Tiny little barrels that when a string is tugged small colourful strings of paper fly out with a pop.

Odd things but my father was captivated by the little things. Thought they were like a muggles version of magic.

George was quick to hand me a glass, the stench of fire whiskey burned my nostrils as I lifted the glass to inhale and work out what the beverage was. Maybe if I got sloshed to the point of no return, mum would have George or Ron escort me back to my tent. It was a stupid idea but one that itched the illogical and stupid side of my brain.

Roughly an hour ago, when I'd been trying to make my way back toward my own tent, I'd spotted an immediately recognisable minx slipping into another tent. One I knew wasn't hers.

It's not creepy.

I just so happened to slow my pace this morning to see what tent she entered, sue me.

Rowan Murray's tent was number thirteen, so why would she be slipping into tent number forty eight at that time of night. I knew exactly whose tent she let herself into, with ease at that, meaning she'd already been given access.

Eli McLaggen.

I hated the pompous little prick more than I disliked his just as much unfavourable elder brother.

Eli McLaggen was Captain of the Appleby Arrows. The most self entitled team in the league. The team that often won and when they did they'd rub every other team's noses in it. They were the definition of unsportsmanlike, pulling little stunts they knew could hurt opposing players that they wouldn't be caught for.

Of course little miss perfect was fucking McLaggen.

It made perfect sense. What didn't was the twist I felt in my gut at the sight, as brisk as my sighting was.

I loathed Murray, hated everything about the snarky, insufferable little witch. But I would have to be blind not to notice how gorgeous the girl was, even if she wasn't the type that I went for—or used to go for—she was far out of McLaggen's league. Though, any girl with two brain cells to rub together, was.

What was she even doing with—

"Freddie,"

—McLaggen, she deserved so much better—

"Freddie?"

—than that bloody git—

"Fred."

My eyes snap up to meet my father's slightly sterner expression across from where I sat in the chair. I'd clear my throat, acting like I wasn't just so consumed by that devious little witch that I had totally blanked out on my parents talking to me.

"Yea?"

"Your mother was talking to you." He'd tell me, the stern expression turning into something akin to concern, something I refused to let him feel over me.

"Is everything alright Freddie?" Mother would add, "you seemed like you were away in another world."

I'd straighten myself from where I'd slid down the sofa more than I realised, legs outstretched and wide. After readjusting myself I'd force on a grin, a toothy one for good measure and in an instant mums shoulders started to relax.

"You should've lobbed a cushion at me," I'd start trying to sound casual, "no need to worry mam, I was just going through the different plays that didn't work out so well for us today," I'd lie easily, "you know me, quidditch on the brain permanently."

"Well that's why you're so good, son." Dad would lean across and pat my knee.

"Don't overwork yourself," mum would smack dads arm gently, "I need my boy to stay vigilant—"

I'd sigh, "yes mother."

Ever since my near death experience, my mother has been extra cautious about me and my health. I loved her for it, but it only served to remind me of what was coming. What I'd narrowly escaped that would surely return to bite me.

She gave me the perfected Molly Weasley look again. A mixture of concern with discontentment at my cutting her off mid sentence.

I loved my mother, so deeply but she really didn't stop when it came to her smothering of our safety. I was twenty five, I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself. At least I should be. Even if I was balls deep in a borderline depressive episode, drinking myself to sleep when I couldn't catch a wink.

Shit, I'd even started smoking. My mother would practically scalp the Weasley genes from my skull if she found out I'd started smoking like the muggles.

"You need to take care of yourself," she'd continue and I'd sigh, despite myself, "how else will you find a lovely woman to settle down with."

Internally, I'd rolled my eyes.

The big idiot George getting married so young and having a child at the age of twenty three had since brought on an onslaught of comments about my lack of a relationship, how I should find myself a nice girl and settle down, that the right girl is out there for me. My mother in particular wouldn't give it a rest.

It started after their make shift wedding that was a total shit show. Mum would make casual comments that she'd drop into conversation every now and again. After Leo was born it became more recurring.

Since I had turned twenty five in April however, it was brought up every time she seen me or sent mail.

She wasn't going to let it drop until she thought I'd found someone but I couldn't. I wouldn't allow myself to love someone, more accurately to let someone love me, when I knew it wouldn't last. When I knew they would have to grieve me in a way no partner ever should.

I'd get her off my back somehow.

"Not this again mam—"

"Come on, lovey, you know I only want what's best for you," Molly would stand and make her way toward me, "you must be lonely," she'd touch my cheek in a way only a mother could, "even Ronald has Hermione now,"

"Oi," my youngest brother would pipe up from across the room.

At the very least, that made the tug of my lips genuine.

"Oh hush," mum would swat her other hand.

"Your mothers right Fredster," my father would set down his glass on the table, "meaningless hook ups aren't going to cut it,"

Jesus Christ.

May Godric strike me down.

In fact, perhaps right now was the ideal time for death to come and take his debt.

There was groans and disgusted silence mixed with some disturbed laughter. I just had to sit there, eyes closed and finger against my temple after mum had turned to face him with her hands on her hips.

"Arthur—"

"What?" Dad would grin, "we all know what the boys like, maybe public humiliation is the only thing that'll work to get him out there—"

I'd rather swallow wet cement.

The Lord and saviour Autumn would stand. Coming to my rescue as she often did when my twin, her husband, would only laugh at my misfortune and uncomfortable position.

"Arthur," she'd grin, "I found a new item from the muggle world that I think you'll like,"

Dad's attention sprung to her in an instant.

"Yes dear, let's go have a gander."

When she slipped away from my twin he'd reach up to swat her backside subtly enough for mum and dad to go without notice but I seen the sly bugger. I'd also hear his whisper about her ruining the fun and how he'd get her back for it later.

Far more of an insight on my brother and his wife than I needed.

I'd stand too, "I'm just heading out for some air." I'd hear mum fussing behind me but I didn't stop. I couldn't. I needed to get out into the quiet and have a moments peace.

The peace lasted all but ten seconds when I'd hear the clatter of something smashing.

"Calm the fuck down—" followed, a male English voice that sounded more than heated.

"Calm down?" A woman shrieked, "calm down?"

I knew that voice. As much as my subconscious wanted to pretend otherwise, a little alarm sounded in my head anytime it was in my vicinity. Rowan Murray. Who sounded rather pissy to say the least.

Another shatter.

"Baby, look—"

"Don't baby me you adulterous bastard," she'd fume and Godric help me because I found the corner of my lip curling up when I heard her yell back at who I'd assume was Eli McLaggen.

"You shallow," another smash, "self obsessed," smash, "less than average dicked—"

Ouch.

"Prat!" Another smash followed her final word.

"Less than average?" Of course that's what the leech would focus on. His manhood being insulted, "you're seriously stooping that low Row?"

I really shouldn't be listening in so intently...but it was that or heading back inside to have my mother in one ear persuading me to find a girl and be happily married within the next five working days and my father in the other discussing my sex life. This was by far the better option.

"You're screwing someone else Eli—" she'd few and I couldn't help the feeling of dread that settled in my stomach for her.

"Oh don't act so high and mighty you prudent bitch,"

Clearly all attempts to manipulate her with the 'baby's' or the 'Row's' had ceased. He was just going down his typical douchebag route and insulting her.

I could understand hating Rowan but calling her a prudent bitch after she'd likely caught him cheating was below the belt, even to me.

"Clarissa and I are just friends, stop being so melodramatic and put my glasses down." There was warning in his voice. A warning that was smothered by her borderline maniacal laughter, "they're crystal."

"Friends?" She'd repeat the word with spite, "ah yes because any good friendship consists of bending her over your dresser and fucking her," she'd toss back quickly, "silly me, I must've missed that memo when I learned about friendship back when we were five."

Fuck, At least she knows how to defend herself.

"I needed something thrilling, Rowan." His voice flattened, took on its usual pompous edge, "not some vanilla, mechanical—frankly boring—chick who does nothing but talk my fucking ear off about shit I couldn't care less about," his cruelty was astounding, even to me, "do you have any idea what it's like to have sex with you?"

"Do you have any idea what it feels like to make me cum?"

Christ.

"That's right, you wouldn't know."

Smash.

"I hope you get an STD, prick."

Then I watched as the furious little witch stormed out the tent. She exited with set shoulders, her head held high and her ponytail swishing behind her like she was a woman on a mission.

But as soon as she was about ten steps away from said tent, those shoulders slumped, her head feel and even in the distance I could've sworn she was trembling.

I didn't even know the demon that was Rowan Murray was capable of trembling.

She disappeared behind one of the audience stands in the distance, but not before she lifted her hands—which she had hauled her sweater sleeves over—to cover her face.

She was crying.

I should go back inside. I shouldn't interfere. Hell, she'd probably castrate me if I did. So I won't.