Just for Fun... Supposedly

Claire knew she was taking this way more seriously than she needed to.

That was sort of the cross she had to bear, though. Some people had to deal with annoying bosses. Others had to deal with a twinge in their left hip. Clarissa Bishop had to deal with the fact that she could not have fun because she was too busy reading into every person around her, and was constantly handling any task as though it were crucial for the well-being of her country. …That said, she was not surprised that she was having trouble taking this friendly little duel with Fred Weasley as seriously as she was.

She had dressed in a way that, she hoped, would help her move and feel comfortable while she dueled. She wanted to ensure that there would be no excuse for her not to win. She did not want to have to worry about plucking at loose shorts or pulling down a tight shirt. She had packed away her business clothes into a small duffel bag and stored all of her things away in them, before tucking them into one of the cubbies in the Ministry’s dueling center. Adjacent was a gym that was free to Ministry employees, and there were rooms to work on keeping their field skills sharp. Claire was a regular haunt of the gym, but she got there much earlier than most of the other Ministry employees. She had not, until now, had a dueling partner.

It was so strange, her connection to Fred Weasley. Not that they were connected – Merlin, no. But the odds of her contact in America becoming her contact in the UK… it was so strange, so improbable. It should have been reassuring. After all, she was alone in a country she was not fond of, nor did she feel welcome to. But Fred Weasley had not become a friend to her, nor an anything else to her. And yet, he was all she had until Elsie found a way to join her. She hated that – for if he knew that, he would definitely never let her hear the end of it.

She had stretched already, fortunately, but was continuing to do so as she waited for Fred to show up. She was early, of course, because Claire Bishop was always early. She was hoping if she continued to be predictably Claire that her passion during the duel would take Fred by surprise and help shut him up. For once. If it had happened once (who could forget that dinner party) then it had to be possible for it to happen again.

“You’re.....erhm.” A slight clearing of the throat, barely distinguishable as a buzz over the static. “Taking this quite seriously.”

The cracking of a joint, caused by rather vigorous swinging of a broad set of shoulders, punctuated that sentence.

“What is it, exactly?”

Fred curved his right arm behind his neck, left hand gripping right wrist in a move that twisted the deltoid muscles most satisfyingly. “A practice spar. With Claire Bishop.”

There was a short, measured pause over the ear-piece. Then, “You have a guy in your office named Claire?”

Fred laughed. Well, more of a quick, amused exhale of breath really, as he flexed his wrists. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lys. She’s a woman. A twenty-three year old,” A drop to the floor, “five feet tall,” Arm muscles tightening as his body lowered, fringe brushing the floor, “blonde-” Back raising up high. “-woman.”

Fred executed ten consecutive push-ups with effortless ease in the pause that followed that statement. Regardless, his best mate had the most impressive ability to make even pauses sound expressive. His lips curved into a smile that Lysander would pick thousands of miles away. “Your faith in my sexist beliefs is reassuring.”

“Its not sexism, per say.” Lysander started off with heart-touching diplomacy, then ruined it in the following words. “Just your sizeable head that can’t even be deflated by a vacuum cleaner.”

Fred popped a kink in his neck.

“Fred.” And even more so than Frederick Weasley, when Lysander Scamander-Lovegood spoke seriously, peril had truly fallen upon the world. Or atleast pigs had learned to use wands and charm themselves wings. “You’ve been warming up for the past.....” Lys probably cocked his head to the side, testing for the angle of sunlight the way he did every time he measured the time, since he refused to use watches, “-ten minutes. You didn’t even warm up for a duel against our Training head. And now crunches and stretches to win a duel against a woman called Claire Bishop.”

The laugh which bubbled out of his throat now, low and thick and warm, sounded decidedly illegal. “Oh, Lys. Of course I’m not warming up to win a duel.”

The pause which followed that was decidedly shorter. “Ah.” Then, just as nicely. “Don’t go too hard on her, will you?”

And it was a testament to their mutual understanding as to how none of them were actually talking about the physical fight anymore. He simply raised a hand to summon a rucksack propped messily at the end of his chair, and snapped a finger to terminate the call.

“Its a little too late for that.”

~

She was stretching rather methodically with her back to the door, and he was standing at the doorway, watching. Left heel cocked against right ankle, right elbow leaning against the doorway, watching. If she knew he was there, then she didn’t betray it.

His shoes had rather obviously, been silenced. So there were no tapping sounds, or even a rustle of cloth as he walked over; her just straightening from a toe-touch. A hand rose, warm fingertips skated down her sides to her hip, where calloused digits curled around her wand of wood, drawing it free from the holster with deceptive gentleness. His voice caused the hairs at her nape to flutter lightly. “You won’t be needing that.”

Then the warmth was gone, and he was five paces away and opposite, and peeling off his jacket on the nearest table. He drew his arms over his head, stretched to one side, and the sweat-soaked black vest shifted over skin, back muscles rippling underneath. The fingers of his left hand ran distractedly through his hair.

“Thought a magical duel would be rather typical, and something both you and I adept at. Maybe a bit of old-fashioned sparring would be more......fun.” His hand dipped into the rucksack, and pulled out two swords by their roughly-hewn wooden hilts. Two seconds and his footsteps brought them mere two inches apart again, like he had barely left. “Blunt, but sharp enough to draw blood.”

His hand wrapped around her fingers this time, lingeringly prising apart her fist to place the hilt of a sword within it. He looked at her eyes, and wondered if the most provocative part of the whole charade had been his utter lack of a smirk or a smile throughout. Amber eyes generally sparkling with mischief were wiped blank as an undisturbed lake; and as deep. Concealing whatever they wished beneath the surface.

She had seemingly chosen to forgive their differences, and agreed to marry him, hadn’t she? Well, if it was Fred Weasley she wanted, Fred Weasley she would get. And when she grew to want too much.....he would step back and let her fall.

“Shall we?”

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?

Fred could only tilt his head to the side and wonder, with an almost amused sort of amazement. Put any other woman in her spot, and she would be drooling, or fluttering her lashes, or simmering in outrage or.....something, really. Claire’s outer behaviour was attentive enough, but her stance was changing as if to adapt to the new challenge, her mouth sealed in a firm line, her eyes cast with absolute concentration- so much that she hadn’t even noticed the show. Like a student about to attempt a really complex exam. She was just so....so...focused.

Oh, you girl. You poor, poor girl.

And for a minute, the competitive spirit waned and the fascination took over, the same which had taken birth the first time they had met and his languid mind had compared her to a drill. It was a feat of nature- how one could be so hopelessly, hopelessly bland and yet so interesting inspite of it; or maybe because of it. It prompted a man to wonder, it did, such a remarkably professional attitude- on how Claire Bishop with her pinstriped skirts and white shirts would be on the dance floor of a club, or shopping for groceries in her pajamas (bloody hell, did she even own pajamas?), or miles above the ground on a broomstick, wind whistling through the air. And really, it shouldn’t have been so difficult to imagine someone.....well, in possession of a life- but it was.

But that was hardly a matter of concern, now, when she was quirking a brow and talking of compliments. His fingers trailed down, thumb brushing past the insides of her wrist as his grip withdrew, but his eyes were not not as merciful, intent on staying exactly where they were- fixed on hers. “That’s because it was.” And three paces back, the distance was sealed, and it felt so, so good to be unpredictable.

Like a weather cock, his mother used to say with fond eyes, turning this way and that with the wind, seeming for all the world as if its only constant was change, while its base kept it exactly where it chose, rigid and immovable.

And he was probably supposed to be scoping out her body language, her tone of voice, for weaknesses and tells; like his training demanded, like he would have done anywhere else: but Fred didn’t fight that way. He never had. From the first scuffle in the Charms corridor in first year to the deadly combats that his job drove him to, Fred had never been about focusing on someone else, analysing their weaknesses and adjusting his style accordingly, he was a gut instinct kind of guy on the field and always would be irrespective of how much he observed or loved to crack riddles. The concentration would always be on his responses, his reflexes, his magic.

But he would bet his penthouse on the fact that Claire was exactly that kind of fighter, and she was probably concocting some elaborate battle plan inside her head and only a fool in possession of half a brain would consent to ‘few demonstrations of technique’ because even amateurs knew to keep their cards hidden before the game they wanted to win.

But.......

“My father was rather taken by surprise by my choice of subject for Masters....he’d naturally assumed it to be Defense.” His palm slid down the hilt, till the sharp end of the wood dug into a very well-worn callous. “I chose Runes. Specialisation in Warding...” The wrist twisted, and the blade sliced through thin air, in three short, precise strokes. “..and Weapons.”

Fred glanced up and let the elusive smile free, the gold in the eye somehow gleaming brighter than the iron in the blade. There you go. The hand of cards shown, and information you were digging for displayed. Was no need for pretense, really. “Only one pointer you need. Don’t drop the sword.”

Yes, only amateurs would reveal advantages before the game they wanted to win. Most wouldn’t. Because they felt a level of insecurity, a level of doubt. Even though he certainly wasn’t going to underestimate her a second time.....Fred felt neither. Besides....this time. This time- he wasn’t playing to win the fight. There was a better prize to be had.

The sword swung, hilt spinning in the grip till the motion was stilled with a curl of the thumb. “Stakes?”

Even as she held the sword improperly – something that was driving her absolute mad, for she never liked to look as though she did not know exactly what she was doing, and perfectly so – Claire found that she could make slight observations. The sword was slightly heavier than those she and Elsie had practiced with, as she had probably used ones especially suited for her age at the time as well as her gender. She could see that the sword was definitely not as dull as those she had used as a youngster – those practice swords had often been lined with plastic, though she and Elsie had often shed the barriers and riskily fought without them. Though she could not test the balance, it hung perfectly in her loose grip and did not sway unnecessarily.

Sh glanced up on the comment of the compliment. Claire had known Fred for a long time - it was not until recently that they had discovered their long acquaintance, sure, but still - and in all that time he had refrained from ever saying anything that could have been taken as a compliment. Even when she had done good things for his department, even when she made his life easier, there had always been some backlash. Fred was skilled at finding something to tease about, and he had always managed to complain about something Claire had done, had not done, or could have done better. And she was pretty sure he had done it for the pure sake of continuing to agitate her.

Sure, she had not been the bigger person. She had taunted back. But she was pretty sure he had started it.

For a moment, Fred said nothing. She stared at him a moment, trying to keep her eyes on his, partly because she was looking for tells, but partly because she was just... curious. Fred was odd. He seemed to simply be one of those cocky Gryffindor types that she had found littered the Auror departments, but there was too much wit in him for him to be wholly insufferable. He mostly made her miserable, but something about her exchanges with him were so invigorating. Rather than shutting her down, it somehow activated a part of her that waited dormant, waited to be released. And it made her mad because... it was Fred.

He broke the silence with another unpredictable move - he began informing a bit into his life. Now, it wasn't unlike him to talk about himself. One of his favorite subjects was himself. But he never revealed anything real, anything that clued her into his character. Fred was too clever for that, as much as she hated to admit it. And yet, he spoke. An eyebrow slowly raised, because she could not help but be impressed with his odd choice. It just sounded like something she would choose. When she had trained as a special agent for the American magical government, she had focused on Combat and Espionage. How was it that Fred had chosen something so like her to choose, and she had chosen something she would expect him to specialize in.

Weird.

She watched the way his sword moved and realized he was not going to give more. She adjusted her grip on the sword, holding it as she had been trained, and carefully straightened up, her boy beginning to settle itself for a fight. "Right."

Stakes. Claire had not considered this. What did she want from Fred? It was a good question, but one she doubted she had an answer to. She did not even know who Fred was. She had no idea what part Fred Weasley played in her own life, let alone in the bigger scheme of things. She knew she needed to keep him as a contact, especially considering her orders, but weren't they just two people who kept annoying each other? She did not want anything out of him.

That was Claire's problem, though. She was yet to find a purpose for herself beyond that of the worker bee, so people still played little importance in her life. She was beginning to feel the hints of dissatisfaction in her life that had always been squashed by more work. When it came down to it, Claire did not know what she wanted out of life. So how could she possibly know what to ask of Fred Weasley.

Hm. Here was an idea.

"If I win," she began slowly, "I want to see Fred Weasley without his boasts or taunts. Just for a dinner, or something. No flirting with everything that moves. No clever comments that offend just to be funny. Just a nice dinner with a nice Fred Weasley." She paused. "And it's not a date. I pose it because I don't think it's possible. This is for science."

Wow. Claire Bishop had practically made a joke. Elsie would have been proud.

His thumb grazed past the wooden hilt, splinters digging into the calloused, hardened skin. Well, well. Looked like he wasn’t the only person looking to be unpredictable here.

It was still a little.....out of the blue, though. He’d have expected.....something light hearted, mildly humiliating. Something which adequately expressed this.....competitive edge, this back and forth and taunt and jibe and frankly.....rather liberating contest of wits and wills that existed between them, something he was rather permanently invested in now, if he said so himself. If not this, then at least he expected a prim folding of the hands, a I’m-being-astoundingly-mature-so-don’t-you-dare-throw-water-on-this-Fred-Weasley request to maintain at least a ten metre radius distance from her always. Even a high nosed scoffing at the childishness of stakes. Not......well.

Not the most fun I’m about to have in a very, very long time.

The hilt hung loose in his grip, he spread his arms to the side and open, almost as if presenting himself for perusal. Fred shook his head slightly, lips pulling back into the facsimile of a sigh. “And here I thought you loved me for myself.”

And with two fluid, hunter-like steps he was within her breathing space again, because today, today Claire Bishop was the opposing pole of a magnet and Fred couldn’t wait to get close enough. The adrenaline had begun dribbling into his bloodstream, kindling slow flame along his veins and he drew in the faint traces of sweat and an indistinguishable perfume through his airways and reveled in the rush of it. Where seconds ago they had been deceptively still and dormant, his eyes now glittered with it- ready to try out the first move of the day. So he exhaled on the pink, chapped skin that was her lips, and watched the light, almost invisible hairs below them flutter, and looked straight through her eyes.

“If you’d wanted to go out for dinner, you could have just asked.” His voice was a murmuring, meandering thing, brushing across the skin, ready to coax and entrap and draw one in the second one let down their guard. Then it shifted, growing subtly more pointed. “You know, like other normal people.”

He drew back, and let the smile unfurl- winningly, knowingly.

He turned on his feet and walked, letting the dangling sword swing lazily between his fingertips. Back and forth, back and forth. “Alright. I can’t very well deny what my fiance wishes of me now, can I?” He glanced back, a little questioningly. “That is what its called, isn’t it? People who’re engaged to marry?”

Oh Merlin. Fred Weasley really was on a roll tonight.

“And if I win,” He began, playing the words between his teeth. “You get to acknowledge the Department of Mysteries and my supreme superiority on all matters investigative and crime-solving......and that the little ploy at the dinner party you played the other day was a bluff, and you really don’t want to marry me. You wouldn’t dare to.” His smile broadened, revealing all those lovely little whites. “I’d be heartbroken, but I’d live.”

The sword swung for one, last time.

“Let’s get on with it then.” And he moved, floor shifting to nothingness beneath him, air catching past his hair- the blade curving in a graceful arc above his head before swiping in, the broad end designed to catch her ribs. He didn’t doubt her ability to parry it. No, he only had to wait to see how long- and far- she’d go.

If he’d been a man for something as paltry as hope, he’d really, really hope that she wouldn’t disappoint him.

Claire had expected the consequences of her choice of dare, for lack of a better word, as soon as the idea was out there. How could she propose such a thing without considerable snark and sass from Fred Weasley, Archduke of Smart Ass Comments? She was expecting it, and he was expecting her to immediately fly onto the defensive. That was what the two of them did. They expected and premeditated and planned. It was a game of chess - no, it was a game of wizard'a chess, especially as they were about to literally come to blows. How did two professionals get to the point where they picked up swords and made bets? That was the problem. For all their talk of departments and deadlines, these two were not being professional.

That was potentially what agitated Claire the most, though everything about Fred seemed to be the thing that most exasperated her. Why, why, why.... Why did it have to be Fred who rocked her personality from it's usually composed state to one of distressing openness.  Elsie only forced a change in the blonde through manipulation and guilt trips. What unsettled Claire was that Fred did not force a change. It just happened as soon as she was in the wake of his presence. The way she reacted to the arrogant man made her feel ever so slightly out of control, even if she still seemed calculated and strong-willed. Meanwhile, the little Claire's in her control center were running around, pretending to look composed, as they tore off their heels so they could reach the files on Self Defense and Witty Comebacks sooner, shredding any and all documents that might reveal weakness.

The game of wizards chess was still going, however, and Fred thought he had a clear shot at her Queen. With an unreadable expression, Claire did not rise, did not assure him one way or the other. Did he thinking taunting her about her choice was going to make her take it back, make her admit one way or another, make her so flustered she failed to secure her victory? She had anticipated that, and she knew that leaving him with questions on her intentions would only serve to throw him off his game.

She would have laughed at his assumption that she 'loved him for himself' but she needed to maintain her current countenance. Besides, as she rebuked herself, Fred was not funny. He was obnoxious.

He stepped towards her and she raised her head to look at him head on. Internally, she was screaming. Too close, too intimate, too taunting, too invasive, too... too... He was too comfortable getting that close to her, too comfortable in thinking he knew how to frustrate her. Because he did. His confidence was not misplaced. It was another thing that infuriated her. Fred had arrogance, but he often had the skills or abilities to support it. Claire had confidence, but she had doubts too. It scared her to think that her adversary maybe had no doubts, nor reasons to doubt.

So she couldn't look uncertain now.

"I'm not asking now," Claire said back, holding his gaze, even as he training commanded her to lift a knee or stomp on his feet. "I'm ensuring it."

Oh, Merlin.

She had not been this close to a man who was inherently off limits in... too long. Nate, Sutton, and Asher were too apart of the social life she felt insignificant in to ever inspire much out of her, nor would they ever get this close to her, save for a friendly hug. They were friends, and would always be jus that. Fred and Claire had an undefined relationship, and the uncharted territory made the breath in her lungs seem wholly insufficient. It was probably just the invasion of her personal space. Nothing more. She was all too aware of how little space was between them.

She tilted her head. "What gave you the impression that I was normal?"

He pulled away, and air rushed into her lungs, providing the relief that was so needed. Thinking came much easier when she had space to do so. He made a show of treating the sword with an almost lazy demeanor. Claire held her sword away from him, though she was obviously at the ready. No way would she lower her guard - not now, not ever.

She blinked. "You are correct. That is the term." Oh, sweet mother of Merlin, what had she gotten herself into? Had she really told this man she was willing to marry him?

She tilted her head. "To recap. If I win, you have to be honest. If you win, I have to lie. Done."

Let him figure that one out.

He was moving and her arm raised instinctively, flexing to ensure the parry was strong enough to withstand the blow. That had been her weakness. Elsie was never quick or clever with the sword, but she as strong. Her blows were clumsy, but they had hurt when they had landed. Claire had strengthened herself because of many bruises inflicted by her best friend, and she did not anticipate her strength failing her now. She immediately slid backwards, that metallic scraping sounding as her sword slid away from his. She leaned to the right, but her left foot took her to the left, and her sword darted out towards Fred's right hip.

"I'm not asking now. I'm ensuring it."

Fred let his eyes close for a second, breath releasing through his teeth in a pleased hiss, savouring it in. Being an Unspeakable often meant following cold, empty leads, failed experiments, investing time in something not worth it. He had an eye for the actual cases, navigating between red herrings- even as a child, being idle was something his mind abhorred and could not possibly cope with. Yet at the same time he bored too easily. It was a paradox that worked remarkably well, he’d desert the tasks that couldn’t possibly interest him and blaze through the problems that did challenge him. Patience wouldn’t be a virtue openly attributed to him, yet he conjured up large reserves of it when the situation deserved it- one could not possibly hope to crack puzzles otherwise. He went through Rubix cubes like a child through chocolates, the striking speed of it almost coming off as disinterested, and yet spend months upon months on an ancient French puzzle box, intent on unraveling the secret as if it had done him some great personal harm.

The fulcrum of the matter was........each and every passing moment was adding more and more to the assumption, nay, the conviction that Claire Bishop was going to be an excellent investment of time. And no matter where they ended, the bed or on the opposite ends of wands, Fred let his eyes flicker back to their natural destination and let the tiny moment of speculation in, whether she could read his cheek and see what was shaping up to be appreciation for the bloody spunkiest woman he’d ever-

No. His gaze flickered over the slightly blown pupils, the jumping pulse in her throat, the steady hand. Spunk was found a dime by the dozen nowadays. This wasn’t spunk, it was calibre.

"What gave you the impression that I was normal?"

“Oh I wouldn’t know.” He said, even as the broad edge of his sword crashed down on...yes, another one. “Isn’t normality the ideal we all aspire to?”

And his lips crooked, even as his mind drew back and reconsidered the prior conclusion he’d made. Yes, he did overreach at times, jumping to the end too quickly- but the non-mingling with office associates except for work, the almost obsessive and frequent overtimes- ‘You should know something about me, if you haven't discovered it already - this is my home’- the broken off relation with Robin Ivanov (of course he knew, he was an Unspeakable, paid to know secrets and this was a particularly public one), indicated his first conclusion was right, and that the Captain of Magical Law and Enforcement Patrol wasn’t as cold and voluntarily friendless as she’d led the world to believe. So he’d gone on a whim, and struck. And she’d recovered beautifully. Pity he couldn’t leave from needling further- he’d always irritated his scabbed wounds, unable to let them heal in peace.

”To recap. If I win, you have to be....” A flash of silver to the right, and his hand darted out to knock the blunt steel back reflexively, and wasn’t that a jolt of surprise to the system, that he’d had to rely on his reflexes rather than take a moment to premeditate a move, ”...honest. If you win...” Her hand whipped back with the impact, and without a thought, his left hand darted up to snag that pale wrist in the air. ”...I have to lie. Done.” There was soft skin, and corded muscle under his fingertips. His grip tightened.

“Don’t tempt me.” His voice had gone below the normal range of scales a long time ago. “Might just make an honest woman out of you.”

And her hand was still caught in his above their heads, and he cranked out that grin and pulled it around her head and forward, forcing her to twist, bloody twirling her like a princess. Taking advantage of the split-second of shock after, amber eyes pinned and unbreaking, Fred lowered a badly behaved smile to her knuckles and ghosted a kiss, heated air licking against her dry skin. His grip slackened a moment later, letting her hand slide out of his fingers like silk.  

Then his feet took two steps back, out of self-preservation perhaps, but clearly there wasn’t a whit of that in him because his sword rose upwards and flicked, as if to say Well come on, then.

Claire could not imagine what Fred was thinking, leaving her only to hope that she had thrown him for a loop, at least in the slightest. She could not say what brought out the edge in her with him. She was naturally competitive, but she had always thought it was that spirit of self competition that consumed her. Right now, however, she was not reminding herself that the only opponent she had to impress was herself. No, she was carefully plotting out moves and tactics that had the potential to destroy Fred Weasley. This was not competition for the sake of self improvement. This was personal.

It must have something to do with the fact that here were two vastly different people in a similar workforce, both reaching and ascending in rather similar patterns, both enjoying the work - and yet one seemed much more satisfied. Fred was not only considered one of the best in his department, but he seemed to thoroughly enjoy the work, feel adequately challenged, and even had something of a social life with coworkers. Claire, on the other hand, often felt she was challenged too much or too little, had relatively few allies or friends, and didn't know if she even believed in what she was doing half of the time. Espionage sounded great but they often forgot to tell you that it meant letting someone else decide what was wrong or right.

And Claire hated letting people decide for her.

Thus, competition. Fred had what she wanted, even though she would still assert that he had gotten where he was based more on reputation and charm than on good-old-fashioned work. And, being that she could not make herself more like him without an implosion of the universe as they knew it, she had to settle for something better and punish him for his success. And she could start by humiliating him and making him lose a bet.

The worst part was... she was not at all certain she would win this anymore.

"If it's the ideal you aspire to, you've done something horribly wrong," Claire quipped back, in regards to normality.

He parried quickly, but for a second, it was only a parry, not coupled with any other plan. So, she had surprised him once. It would be hard to do again, so speed was only going to be her ally once the swords really began to dance. She now had to make sure she was simply going to follow through on strength and would have a clear strategy with room for improvisation. Her hand withdrew, and her mind begin pulling forth potential moves, but a hand flew towards her. It took her a second longer to process than it would have had it been his sword moving towards her, and the delay meant her hand became trapped. Her eyes snapped up to his and her legs tensed, ready to break the hold if he used her position against her. Her arm flexed in preparation.

His words incensed her, as he knew they would, but she kept the cool exterior. A little of the fire within was flickering on her face, less than pleased to be forced into a position of vulnerability. He made a move and she prepared to break it if a sword came her way, but she was suddenly twirled, and she felt like the most ridiculous creature on the face of the planet. Why had he done that? Obviously, it was one of those stupid masculine attempts to remind her that she was a girl, and that a girl was supposed to be silly and pretty, and swords were much too unladylike. Fire raged in her eyes and she turned back to him, allowing for this kiss, ignoring the warmth it brought her hand. For as soon as he let her go, she stood erect, preparing. Her lifted his wand and she waited a second longer. The moment was pregnant with anticipation and preparation and then it broke. She lunged forward, her form perfect (of course), and with almost her full strength, saving the rest of it for a potential block, she aimed the sword for his left shoulder.