Many thoughts ran through her head, and she methodically cleared them unless they had any bearing on the fight she was about to have. Memories of her training did not help, unless it was to consider the tactics that Fred might think of using. Memories of her first wizard's duel did not help, unless it was to consider the marked differences between those who follow the rules and those who don't - assuming, quite logically, that Fred Weasley was probably the latter. Memories of anger, anger at her parents, at her sister, anger that would fuel her fighting, were not helping. They were not healthy. Emotion would not beat Fred Weasley. Discipline would.
She stood erect and slowly bended her spine forward, touching her toes, before sliding her hands forward, walking herself out. She stretched out her legs and walked herself back up, before slowly standing, letting each vertabrae stack itself upon the one below it. She rolled her neck, slowly swaying her hips as she stepped out her feet, before bending to reach her left foot. It was then that she felt a presence join the room. She could feel eyes on her - and not just any eyes, the eyes of the most smug, cocky man she had ever met. And that was saying something, coming from the ex of a teenaged Robin Ivanov.
She did not let him stop her. She did not even look his way. She was certain he would not attack her from behind - not with magic, anyway. He was much too Gryffindor for that. She remained hypr-aware of his presence as she swung herself to the right, reaching her right ankle. He was approaching. She slid her feet together, keeping her palms rooted to the ground before slowly rolling her way back up. He was right behind her, and she did not move, trying to size him up without looking his way. She could fel the heat of hos body, sense his arms, his torso, his legs. She could feel the slight change his breath made on her body.
Fred Weasley was getting dangerously close.
She sharply turned and faced him as she realized her wand had been confiscated, her eyes hard on him as he reviewed the wand in his hand. Claire noticed that he was not armed with a wand either. She squinted her eyes curiously and tilted her head, holding herself comfortably erect as he prepared himself for their match, trying to decide whether or not he was implying they were going to do old fashioned hand to hand fighting. He was toned, very muscular - if this was a hand to hand combat mode, she was going to have to count on him being slow. And with as much as he liked to talk Quidditch, she doubted there was not a need for speed in his system.
He spoke and Claire bought time with the quip, "Careful, Mr. Weasley, that almost sounded like a compliment." She was quickly trying to refocus her energy on hand to hand combat. Had she known, she would have catered her gym times to more lifting than usual, but as she had not, she was going to just have to adapt. While she tried to figure out whether or not dirty moves were going to be on or off the table, Fred revealed the contents of his rucksack. As he withdrew the swords, Claire fought to keep all signs of recognition off of her face - she may just have found her advantage.
She had fenced, of course. Her best friend had been insanely rich, after all, and most of her summers had been spent with her. They had entertained themselves with riding horses, playing cricket, and fencing - all those upper class hobbies that Elsie hated to do had been right up middle-class Claire's alley. She had taken fairly well to fencing and was certain she still had the ability. But there was no need to let Fred on to that at all. In fact...
He stepped up, immediately placing himself right in front of her. His hand was on hers but she watched him, curious to see what was motivating all of this, but his eyes were fairly unreadable. His expression was much like the one she typically wore - purposefully empty of all emotion. There was no jest, no laugh, no smirk playing at his smile lines. His eyebrows did not dance and move as they usually did. Everything was as stone. Unmovable, unreadable, and almost cold.
His hand was on hers, demanding that it unfurl itself. Her hand resisted, before all at once opening, intent on letting his hand know that it should not try to control what was not its own. She found the hilt and Claire forced herself to grip it improperly. The perfectionist inside of her cringed while her expression did not move. She tilted her head. "Care to give a few pointers? I did not know I was going to be coming to this with no preparation at all. Maybe a few demonstrations of technique?" She spoke with a cool, clipped tone, almost suggesting she was irritable to be at such a disadvantage.
But Claire Bishop had a plan. Didn't she always have a plan?