Strange Glimpses

Claire had never really felt apathy before. Not truly.

But she also felt like she had little to do that she had any passion for. Elsie had taken on some projects of her own, and and Claire felt like she hardly ever saw her soul sister anymore. Her sparring with Fred Weasley had dwindled and she rarely saw him anymore, especially now that the Ministry was being rebuilt and nothing was back to normal with it. During that time, her job had mostly become at home stuff.

And Gordon had pretty much cut her off. His assistant had apparated into the London to meet with Claire, to tell her that her assignment was temporarily being frozen, but that she was not to leave. Her cover was so well established that if, and hopefully when, Gordon felt like there was another opportunity to root out some information for him, she needed to be in London to get it. She quoted Gordon and asked "I thought this was supposed to be an 'in and out job.' 'No more than a month." The assistant had looked at her with such disdain. "If you believed things were that simple, then maybe you're not the person for the job."

That had been right after the Ministry had fallen. For a few weeks, Claire could not put any true effort into her work. She had done the bare minimum and gotten by. Then she had been offered the position of The Head of the International Confederation of Wizards. Now, it was in the works. So long as she could help get the Ministry back up and running, the position would be hers. And that should have been an exciting proposition.

But that just meant she was now tied here. And she was not happy with that idea.

It was a Friday night, and she could have gone out with Ben - he had offered. But there was something just sad about having to resort to your best friend's brother as your social life. Ben was great, but he had people he actually liked to hang out with. Claire was not going to burden him for company for the third in a fortnight. Elsie was doing God know's what, and Claire figured she could work on a plan once she got the job. So she sprawled out on her sofa, clad in a V-neck and leggings,set her papers all over the coffee table, pulled on her reading glasses, set up her bowl of snacks and her red wine, lowered the volume on the telly and... procrastinated.

“What the everloving f*ck.”

Lysander leaned back serenely, game controller still dangling between an index finger and a thumb. “There there.”

“I am the god of Call of Duty.” Fred whirled around, where his blasted best mate was still leaning back against the russet coloured leather of the couch, looking for all the world that he’d conquered a small country. “You hear me? The god.”

“I don’t believe in deities. Nothing personal you understand, you’ll just have to take it up with the Buddhist saints.” Lysander dropped the controller on the side table, then pointed the remote at the 32 inch flat screen where the astounding results were still displayed, turning it off with the press of a button. Then added, rather unnecessarily in Fred’s not-so-humble opinion. “I still won.”

“You rigged it.” Fred squinted at the screen in suspicion, fighting the urge to turn it on again. “You manufactured a new cheat sheet. You mixed pills in my beer. You slept with the programmer.”

“Horrifically extreme, elaborate plans just for the sake of winning a game?” Lysander sighed, his universal disappointed-with-the-world sigh. “More of your style than mine I’m afraid, Freddie.”

And that jolted something within Fred’s memory, a barely second-long flash of blonde hair and curled lip and barely restrained ire in the aftermath of a spar. It caught him offguard, he hadn’t thought about it since ages ever since he’d dropped into the States again; and Fred swiftly turned his head to the right to see Lysander turning back to the screen, but the barely there quirk to the lips, undeniably smug to someone who’d known the Scamander as long as he had, confirmed it: the comment had been made deliberately. And it had had the intended results.

Lysander Scamander was an unapologetic, dickish, son of a – oh damn it, Fred liked Luna.

When several seconds passed in silence, Fred turned back to the screen, back pressing against the couch leather with a huff that he would deny to his dying days. “If you think that Saint of Tranquillity act still fools me, you’re more of a knucklehead than I give you credit for. Out with it.”

“Nothing.” Lysander said, and damn he could pull off the innocent charade miles better than Fred ever could (probably because he could restrain the smirk, and Fred didn’t deign to put it in the requisite effort that that would require), but never, ever good enough to fool Fred. “Just wondering when you were heading back home.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. Blame Albus. “Strange. Considering the fact that I wake up to the same million-dollar view every day, you think I’d notice if I wasn’t sitting in my own house right now.”

“Was referring to Britain, actually.” And hell, maybe he could fool Fred a little after all, because he certainly hadn’t seen that one coming. But the blonde still wasn’t done. “The Marriage Law’s gone now. All troubles vanished. Perfect time for you to return. As always.”

Fred’s jaw tightened. Jack yes, but he certainly hadn’t foreseen Lysander, his best f*cking friend in the entire world to profess this opinion. And no, even consideration for the fact that it was indeed Lysander could dull the smoothly hard, venom-flecked anger to his words. “Contrary to what you might believe,” and he didn’t acknowledge that it bit, somewhere, that Lys of all people believed it, “I am not running every time things get rough-“

“Not accusing you of anything, Freddie.” Lysander’s lips flickered, and his eyes looked at some random patch on the wall other than Fred’s face, and Merlin did Fred despise it when that happened. “There’s a difference between being a coward and being……..” A pause. Fred hated those too, Lysander never normally took time to mince his words. “You don’t do responsibility, Fred. I get that.”

“What on earth is that supposed to-“ Fred started, words falling swift and sharp, temper simmering beneath his veins, but cut himself off midsentence, breath exiting past lips in a hiss. A second passed, and he loosened his shoulders deliberately, rolling the muscles, kicking out the legs, almost sprawling over the couch. His head tilted ever so slightly to the side, voice caramel smooth, amber eyes coated with steel. Sarcasm sparingly, beautifully tainted his syllables. “Aw, Lys. You’ve been at the DVD’s again. Don’t tell me you’re asking me to choose between Britain and the States.” A very deliberate, well executed pause. “And isn’t all this a little hypocritical for the guy who hasn’t been ……ah, home in years?”

“I’m not asking you to choose. I’m asking you to decide.” Lysander’s lower lip curled, but he didn’t look like the sudden change in attitude had thrown him off at all. Like he’d almost expected it. “And I am home.”

Quiet.

“We’ve lived here for years Fred, and we bloody enjoy it. It’s a fantastic life, and I’m not looking for better, or more. But you still sometimes talk of ‘going back and fixing things’, or putting them to rights and that…….that takes responsibility.” And then he raised his voice and went right on, as if he knew that Fred was about to object right here, which admittedly, he probably did. “Not obstinacy Fred, Merlin knows you possess enough of that in spades. Responsibility. Sitting at something and working at it, even though it isn’t a puzzle, even though it isn’t exciting. Something that doesn’t have an immediate prize to work for.”

“And I know this isn’t getting through your thick-skulled head because you bloody won’t let it, but I’m not accusing you. Damn, I want you to stay here.” Lysander flicked at his cuff with his index nail, then finally focused his eyes on the face of his brother in all but blood. He actually looked serious too, the bloody twat. If it weren’t for the resentment and annoyance still flushing about somewhere in his bloodstream, Fred might have broken out in hives. “But you’re Fred Arthur Weasley. And that’s always mattered to you. Your name has always been important.”

And Fred Arthur Weasley was an important name in wizarding America too. But that first, middle and last name couldn’t matter the way it did in Britain. The way it could in Britain. And Fred was a Runes student, at heart. He’d always loved the history.

So the weight of his body moved forward, transferring to the balls of his feet and Fred slid into a standing position with a fluidity that was as much training as it was pure, unrestrained charisma. He tossed the controller above his shoulder and reached the doorway in five lounging steps, which was impressive because the living room was massive.

“Heading somewhere?” Lysander’s voice piped from behind, like he didn’t know where, the absolute scumbag.

If Fred had possessed half the melodrama of one Albus Potter, he would have let a smirk slip past his canines and said- ‘Home’. But he didn’t, and more importantly, he didn’t know whether he would mean it. Yet. That’s what he had to find out.

This was probably the exact opposite of what Lysander wanted, because Fred wasn’t doing this out of some latent, just-woken sense of responsibility. Of owing the people back there some shit. Yes, he was doing this out of f*cking obstinacy, just because he bloody well could, and to stick a finger at all those who thought he couldn’t. He wasn’t deluding himself any.

So in the end, Fred Weasley turned and leaned a hip against the doorway to his living room in his five-thousand square feet penthouse in LA and smiled, because while he didn’t have the melodrama, he had double the style. “Gryffindor, Lys, ‘where dwell the brave of heart’. We don’t renege on our promises.”

Then he turned, and let the smile twist itself into a smirk. “And I owe someone a nice dinner.”

~

He could press the doorbell. But whatever asinine, electronic ringing sound that Claire Bishop had designated to the bell attached to her door wouldn’t be half awesome enough to herald the coming of one Fred Weasley.

He could knock at the door. Knock down the door.

Fred hummed. Possibilities, possibilities.

Of course, he could wait until office actually began at nine on Monday. Surprise her in the gym where she began training at 7 a.m. like the hopelessly disciplined android she was. There was no need to hunt her down to her humble abode, because that would imply he’d dug up the address the same way he’d dug up her training schedule, except Fred was an Unspeakable and it was kind of the job to know everything personal about everyone.

Well. Almost everyone. Helped if they were Professional, Confident women that he snarked at and sparred with and wanted to see as off their game as possible.

Lies. He just wanted to see her in pajamas.

So Fred crouched upon her window sill and let his eyebrows rise at the outfit she was sporting. Because damn, the pajamas had just been a joke, he couldn’t actually imagine her in them. But Bishop was dressed in something almost (okay fine, definitely) casual, and his mind wasn’t stupid enough to think that the woman wore tailored robes and pinstriped shirts while watching the television at home. Except maybe it was. And she was sprawled on the couch in a way that showed that maybe she was ……human, after all.

Fred didn’t have the time to wonder at the inanity of that last sentence, he was too busy raising an eyebrow at his own reaction to the glasses.

Glasses. He didn’t usually do the geek-nerd types, with their baggy hipster clothes and shy smiles. He liked the ones who actually showed their curves, the forward ones with the attitude and the fashionable, form-fitting clothing to match. He didn’t do glasses. Except apparently on Claire Bishop.

He stretched his legs on the sill, leaning his back against the window frame, mentally thanking the lack of bars. The lights of the city silhouetted his profile, catching off the mahogany shades to the hair, glinted off the gold flecks in amber irises.

“I’d ask you to let down your hair, but I’m afraid I’ve already climbed up. Apologies.”

Paperwork was endless. She used to love doing her paperwork, because it meant getting things done, it meant progress, it meant checking off another item on  her list of to-do tasks. But that had been when paperwork had actually moved her towards something. In her position, it was incident reports, signing off on accounts, approving budgets - nothing that meant anything. Claire loved work - but she was starting to hate work for the sake of work. She wanted some sort of meaning to all of the drudgery. What was she trying to accomplish with this job? Sure, she needed it as cover, but besides that?

What was the point?

She had been considering that sentence a lot lately. There were some parts of her life that so positively outshone the others that it bothered her. Shouldn't she go into work every day with zeal, with hunger to get something done, to see a project through, the way she used to? Shouldn't Sutton and Asher make her smile and laugh, the way friends were supposed to? Shouldn't there be a thirst inside of her to talk to her father, get to know her new stepmom-figure, reconnect with the people who shared her name?

Amidst all of the dullness, there were points of pride. Her old assistant had sent her a letter from New York, having been promoted to the position of Head Auror back at home. To have created good, to have helped another, filled her with inspiration. The knowledge that Elsie would be at home at the end of a long day, willing to love, and cry, and laugh as needed, reminded her that while life was lonely, it was a shared solitude. And even stupid Weasley could get her to look forward to something. And that was a nice thought in and of itself.

But her assistant was in New York. Elsie was in another part of Europe, vacationing. And Fred was... well, she wasn't exactly sure.

She was here.

Paperwork abandoned, Claire picked up her glass of wine and leaned back, resting the brim of the glass against her chest as her eyes fluttered closed. She had this nagging suspicion that she was supposed to enjoy living. And if that was the case, she was doing it wrong. And Claire hated feeling incompetent.

She lifted the glass to her lips and drank, before flicking her eyes open. She leaned forward and set the glass down, reaching for her pen to continue on.

“I’d ask you to let down your hair, but I’m afraid I’ve already climbed up. Apologies.”

Her body tensed, causing a flinch, and she clamped her teeth together, unwilling to let out any noise that could be attributed to fear. Her hand changed paths immediately and picked up her wand, as her legs straightened up beneath her, drawing her into a standing position. Her whole body turned and the muscles in her wand arm danced, ready to cut down whoever was threatening her safety and her comfort - only to find that it was someone she had beaten once before in combat.

Now her teeth unclenched, allowing her chin to drop ever so slightly, her lips parting in surprise as her eyebrows lifted. Was this  where Fred Weasley had been? On her windowsill?

"What are you doing?"

Fred Weasley had a fairly good idea of how it was all going to go.

Not that he’d ever admit to it. Nah, planning things in advance and actually having the audacity of expecting them to pass was for all those idiots who studied before the NEWT’s and Unspeakable training, who fussed and fidgeted and worked and prepared. Fred was completely a fan of wandering casually into the fray, stride at ease in the confidence that his talents would get him out, through and above everything that could possible crop up or be thrown at him. He was equipped for all eventualities by the simple virtue of the fact that he hardly ever bothered equipping himself at all. At least not for the minor things.

Yet apparently idiots had been rubbing off on him, because apparently he’d wandered in here with prior expectations. Which were tottering in their place as Claire Bishop flopped over a leather couch, pressed her glass against her chest with eyes closed and exhaled. In that small puff of breath that silently brushed past her lips, she didn’t look bland or professional or confident or whatever other labels Fred had chosen to flung her way in their time as colleagues, competitors, acquaintances.

She looked lonely.

And that was…….just a little, a teeny weeny bit…..unsettling. Not that she had looked like that; but the fact that he had seen. Fred Weasley had rapier-sharp observational skills, you didn’t get to the brilliant job he had without them. Oh, he observed alright.

But he never noticed. Except now.

So yeah, where were we? Expectations. He’d expected Claire Bishop to whirl around when he snarked lazily at her, conjured the perfect picture in his mind of how the vein in her temple would twitch, mouth curling in barely concealed irritation, perfectly concise words flying out about how he didn’t have the right to the knowledge of private addresses, much less to turn up at them- and maybe a dry quip about restraining orders. He’d relished in the idea of moulding the exact words from his tongue, letting his voice caress the jibes that would drive her further up the wall.

Bishop did wonderful justice to his expectations in the beginning, tensing and shooting up to her feet, wand slipping into capable fingers in a remarkable display of reflexes. Displaying remarkable patience if he said so himself, he let the anticipation for the ire climb. It never came.

She looked at him. Kept on looking. Didn’t look unhappy. At…….all, actually.

Keep on staring at me like that, and I’m going to start getting the wrong idea.

…….Upon further reflection, that thought should have sounded a little more innuendo-laden. Perhaps. Ah, who cares. Maybe he was simply out of practice.

Bishop finally broke the mute spell. "What are you doing?"

A generous smirk uncurled on his lips, and his right leg stretched languorously, propped against the window frame. The transition of feet from wooden sill to carpeted floor was smooth, and he tilted his neck side to side to force out any kinks. “Well, you weren’t coming to the window, love. How else was I supposed to serenade you?”

Then, almost as an afterthought. "Stow the weapon, would you? Try it on someone you can beat." And ouch, that had to burn so deliciously in the aftermath of the spar.

Fred rose to his feet within her living room and strolled over, so perfectly at ease that it was downright offensive. Cue surveying of the coffee table that looked like it had been taken over by the Paperwork Monster, and a mild sigh. “Hell Bishop, you really weren’t kidding when you said you were lawfully wedded to your work, did you?” A quick flick of the wand, and the papers drifted off the table to stack themselves by the foot of the sofa (yes, organisational housekeeping Charm, his aunt was Hermione fricking Granger so shut up). Then, to recover, with a smile that was downright dangerous in its amiability. “What do you do, jerk off to spreadsheets and checklists between the sheets?”

Aaand….there was probably something wrong with the phrasing there, no matter how gloriously smug Fred was feeling in the moment, probably because while he shoved the whole feminity-and-womanhood into her face during their little mocking sessions, he’d just spoken to her right now like she was one of the guys that he took rounds in the pubs with. It was most fortunate that the doorbell chose to ring at that precise moment.

“That would be the Chinese.” He informed her, like a monstrous tabby cat that had gotten the cream and the canary and the whole frigging goldfish aquarium. Stroll stroll stroll. Open door. Collect the three greasy food bags from the delivery boy, tip nicely and acknowledge the guy’s greetings of an enjoyable night. Stroll right back and dump the contents over the coffee table.

“Dinner for two.” Voice registering somewhere in the lower octaves, Fred leaned over and tapped the bridge of those glasses right over the nose. One, two. Then he turned in a flourish and collapsed over the sofa, stretching over the leather and feeling like a goddamn king.

“Oh, do sit down. Make yourself comfortable.” Pause. “Dumplings?”

Claire was reeling, and she was having difficulty figuring out what to do next. Fred Weasley had just seen her in casual clothes, sipping red wine, sprawled out on the couch. Oh Merlin, she was wearing glasses. Claire blinked, all of these thoughts culminating in a painfully self-aware state of mind. Fred was seeing her completely weakened, completely humanized. She worked very hard to keep a meticulously kept image, and it had all just crashed down because Fred Weasley was rude enough not to call ahead.

Despite her initiated panic mode, Claire did manage to find enough irritation in her towards the Weasley man to scowl at him when he stepped into her apartment. "That wasn't an invitation," she reminded. Like that would keep him, the most obstinate man in the whole bloody country, from doing anything he put his mind to.

She felt rooted to the spot, every bone in her body seeming to stiffen and hold her where she was, like a model of Claire Bishop rather than the thinking, feeling, calculating Claire Bishop capable of kicking Fred Weasley's arse if she had to. Her face tried to twitch into a scowl when he suggested serenading her, but honestly, she was afraid of making any sort of face that revealed more than she already had. Never before had she thought her like anything like a Shakespearean tragedy, but a line from Romeo and Juliet now pounded through her head, pissing her off even more that it should be that play of all of them to haunt her now. 'I should have been more strange.' Now she understood how awkward it was for Romeo to spy on her from the balcony.

Her eyes managed to narrow on him for the unjustified quip, especially considering the fact that she had won the duel. Asshole. Asshole. Asshole. The refrain rolled through her head over and over, accusing as she stared blankly at Fred, feeling incapable of actually expressing her anger. But somehow, her face was incapable of showing anything more than the initial surprise she had felt at seeing Fred at her window.

He continued to speak, and Claire found herself trying to put the weapon away, but her body seemed unwilling to do anything. She remained poised as before, incapable of moving forward. But she could change that. She had more strength that. She looked down at her wand, willing herself to move, to prove that she was not so on edge, and she found herself slowly lowered it, finally setting it aside on her coffee table. As she did, the paperwork was sent flying, piling up elsewhere. She jerked her head up, her hand hovering over her wand as she looked at Fred. "Hey, I have a system," she said, bitingly. And then he continued on. ASSHOLE. ASSHOLE. ASSHOLE. Claire stood up straight once more, crossing her arms. "Get out of my apartment."

But he was distracted by the door buzzing. She turned, watching him, staring hard at him. "Don't answer my door-" but it was already done. He turned, showing his goods, and damn it if it wasn't her favorite type of take out. He approached and her face no longer looked surprised - she was close to furious. He touched her glasses and her eyes closed tightly. If she didn't calm herself down and breathe, she was going to kill him. It wasn't a question.

Sh turned, looking down at him. "Get out."

She was getting mad. She was getting really, really mad.

Oh thank God.

Because that was a familiar response. Fred Weasley knew how to get under Claire Bishop’s skin, knew how to tease and mock and jibe to get her so spitting angry that she wouldn’t be capable of any other response. And yes, admittedly, it was the only way he knew how to pry open the shell that the woman erected so adamantly around herself, or if not that, then at least create a crack in it.

But once again, the evening was taking a turn that he did not predict, because there was no undercurrent of amusement to her words, no tiny little gleam in her eye that indicated that no matter what she expressed outwardly, she was enjoying this session of barbs just as much as he was, no twitching lip that restrained a smile at his clever quips.

Some people trembled, when they got angry. An entire series of tremors that worked their way beneath their skin, quivered through their muscles. Claire Bishop was the exact opposite. She tightened, like a string that could get no tauter, shoulder muscles coiling and jaw clenching and lips compressed so tightly that air couldn’t have hoped to make it through. Bishop was just as excellently trained, she didn’t betray emotions that easily, expose herself for his eyes to read. But the shield seemed oddly worn through in places today, real, live emotions leaking out through the fissures. And maybe Fred ordinarily knew nothing of true consequence about the frigid woman- but he knew her anger. This wasn’t the ire that he normally drew out of her. This was something else. Panic? Agitation? ….Fear? Whatever it was, it wasn’t anger.

If Fred Weasley had any doubts at all before this that he wasn’t intrigued by this fascinating woman, then this moment cinched it. The fraying thread of control to the words. The paradox between her outwardly calm posture and her quietly blazing eyes.

“Get out of my apartment.”

The puzzle solver in Fred Weasley wanted to get close to this enigma. Break her open. Learn all her secrets.

“Get out.”

I will once you actually start meaning it. Fred barely resisted the urge to say, crossing one knee languorously over the other, since contrary to popular opinion, he wasn’t completely suicidal. But it wasn’t in his natural nature to pacify either, yet leaving the apartment now was completely out of the question. Not now. Not when he’d caught glimpse of the first crack. The first breakthrough in the case.

So he wiped the smile and slowly ascended to his feet, standing still in the same spot even though naturally he’d have advanced a couple of steps just to impress his point. Bishop was clearly at the end of her tether, invading personal space would not be the right tactic right now. But he was still Fred bloody Weasley and no amount of strategy or logic could hold him back from establishing direct, unflinching eye contact. Her eyes looked brown under this light.

“You know,” He began slowly, voice dropped to a quieter, lower pitch. “If you’re aiming for unaffectedness and control in this situation, you’re not exactly doing an excellent job of convincing me of it.” His eyes, deliberately, ran over the whitened knuckles, the veins standing starkly against the pale skin, willing her to see what he was seeing. “Ejecting me out won’t prove anything. Running from situations basically equates to distance. And driving me out…..” The syllables were pitched even lower now. “…doesn’t mean it isn’t running.”

And then the seriousness had to drop, because a snarking Fred Weasley was a familiar Fred Weasley and no matter how much she claimed to hate him, she was used to him. So with something lazy curving up his lips he backed up two steps and turned his back to her, pacing around the coffee table nonchalantly, keeping up the pretense that this time wasn’t meant as, damn, something almost respectful, a few seconds reprieve so that she could garner back the control she so prized. “But of course, if you insist upon it, I will take my leave. And the Chinese. Big fan of safe, sane and consensual and all that.” He spun around slightly in place, throwing a roguish grin over the shoulder. “Even though technically, you were the one who asked for dinner. Downright blackmailed me into it, actually. But if you can’t handle the stakes that you specified…….” He rolled his shoulders in an effortless, oh-well shrug, challenge dancing soft, yet unthreatening in the crooks of his smile.

“But I suppose I am being a little unfair. You did ask for a….” He trailed off, brows clouding in a classic parody of a let-me-jog-the-dusty-archives-of-my-memory gesture. “…. ‘a nice dinner with a nice Fred Weasley’. And I haven’t been behaving very nicely. So.” He pivoted on his heels to turn back around to her, and let his right hand dip into the very deep pocket of the butter soft, bomber jacket that was shrugged over his shoulders. His fingers retrieved a plastic packet, air-sealed, and proffered it to the woman standing a couple of meters away.

And now, now was the time for the trickiest part of this entire thing. Fred’s lips broadened and curved, eradicating all traces of the smirk and only leaving behind the smile. A true, honest-to-Merlin charming smile that took no prisoners. “Thought you might find it a little condescending if I brought you flowers. So. Marshmallows.” It wasn’t the most refined, classy, exquisite thing that one could have brought for a woman like Claire Bishop, owner of formal trousers and robes galore, Department of Law Enforcement. But Fred had a niggling feeling, and his niggling feelings were downright brilliant, that if, if he would be having dinner here tonight……it wouldn’t be with that woman. Of the trousers and the Ministry position. A feeling that this bag of sticky white concoctions was the right thing, here.

“Fancy imported brand from somewhere. Apparently has clotted cream, mint, strawberry, orange, even effing marzipan flavours.” A tiny, tiny increment of his steps, in the forward direction. The packet still dangled by his fingertips, not tossed onto the coffee table, not pressed into her hands- just offered. The curve to the lips grew warmer. “I’d hope you keep this even if you kicked me to the curb tonight, Claire.”

And that, that right there, the first time he ever called her by her first name aloud, standing unwelcome in her living room and while she was blazingly furious……that was the right thing here too.

Claire had always realized how different she and Fred Weasley were. The very way they tackled work, which seemed to consume a lot of their life, was indicative enough that the two operated on different levels entirely. Claire only trusted what she could see, and sense, and test. She relied on herself and herself alone to get a task done, delegating only the simplest of tasks and never taking on a partner. She kept around only the amount of people she needed to stay sane, and family was little more than a vague reminder of biology. She was the sort of person who could probably stop coming in to work and no one would notice, until her department plummeted into the ground. But more than anything, Claire was the sort of person who was constantly delaying happiness for success later.

Then there was Fred Weasley. The man who used intuition as a trick of his trade, who had to work with his other Unspeakables, who got involved with the wizarding wars because of some higher sense of duty. Fred who walked into the Ministry and had people calling out to him, laughing at jokes he had told the week prior, who would never be found eating alone if he wanted company. Fred who had a family that everyone knew, that everyone loved, that everyone felt somehow connected to, just a little bit. Fred's absence would be felt immediately. Fred, who always seemed to be able to wrestle some enjoyment out of the present.

But something very, very different about the two of them was that she had not left, and she had all the reason in the world too. She knew there was no reason for her to hold it against him. Elsie had been absent lately, and Claire should have been much more concerned about that. Ben had become a little distant, and certainly Claire should miss Ben before she missed Fred Weasley. But Claire only kept around the right amount of people to keep her sane. And when they all left, she felt it. And how could she ever be upset with the Nortons for abandoning her, when she knew they were doing it out of self preservation and never to hurt her. But Fred had made a lot of promises and, sure, while she had sort of hoped he would renege on a few of them, it would have been nice to have been acknowledged in some way before he just ran away.

And she sure would have never had the gall to accuse someone of the very thing she was guilty of.

So, with a very unforgiving look, piercing as deeply as she could into his arrogant face, she said, "You're one to talk about running."

It wasn't personal, she was sure. Lots of wizards had fled the marriage law, and the only reason she had ever flipping agreed to marry him was to see him squirm. The only scenario that she would have let him put a ring on her finger featured a very pissed off Fred who had run out of options and had to do it, lest his pride beat him. So, at first, it had been amusing that Fred would rather run out of the country than face marrying her. It almost felt like a win. But winning was typically a lot less lonely. And winning typically did not make you consider yourself as someone people who avoid at all costs. And the logical part of her told her this was a stupid train of thought. But the part of her that suddenly found herself going whole days saying nothing more than "Good morning, Bill" and "Have a good night, Nancy" would have paid to argue with Fred Weasley.

It seemed like this argument was going to be free.

She still had not sat down, and she had no plans to. Sitting would mean relaxing and how could she relax when Fred was doing everything in his power to put her on edge. She couldn't believe that she had missed this. She was a well-respected, much-loved woman back in New York, and she could not think of anyone who would have treated her the way Fred did. As though she were small, weak, incapable of defense, not smart enough to fight back. Of course that's what he thought of her - why else would he run away just to accuse her of the same? Why else would he take away what she had earned fair and square.

He knew it too. He knew that the whole point of her bet was to see him in an environment where she had the upper hand. Where he had to behave, had to be civil, had to be exposed. She had won but he had made it all about exposing her. He had taken her prize from her by barging into her home while she sat in relaxed clothes, teasing and taunting her after having actually gotten a hit past her usually indestructible armor. It was a cheap, low trick he had pulled, and she felt actual rage and indignation boiling in her. Had he left right then, she might have cried. But no way was she going to give him that satisfaction. No way. "Damn right this isn't fair," she said, wanting to tell him just how horrible and low this was, but there was a catch in her voice. She swallowed, and had to abandon the lecture at that. She didn't trust her voice not to betray her again.

It seemed she was unjustly feeling betrayed a lot recently.

He reached into his pocket and her finger flinched towards her wand, almost expecting him to pull out his and suggest they duel to see whether or not he stayed or went. That seemed right, that seemed like something Fred would do. But he actually had something. A bag of marshmallows. And while part of her brain was just repeating 'what?' one right after the other, another part of her found that the surprise was welcome. Fred could surprise her.

A month ago, she and Elsie had been feeling rotten. Elsie chalked it up to not having a job she cared about, and Claire knew hers was homesickness and apathy and the lingering regret of abandoning the potential to have a family when there was someone willing to share a life with her. Claire had left work early, feeling miserable, and had crumpled on her couch. Elsie had come home, taken one look at her friend, and left. Naturally, that did nothing for Claire's mood, which had plummeted ever further, and she had abandoned the couch for her bed, where she curled up and tried to sleep. But she had not even been close to sleep when Elsie barged into her room and overturned a bulging grocery bag, spill all manner of things onto Claire's bed - frozen cookie dough, brownie mix, chocolate frosting, Peeps, wrapped toffees, boxes of cake batter, and, of course, some marshmallows. The idea had been that they would bake away their worries into sweets, eat them, and they would soon pass.

It had been a nasty sentence coming out of Elsie's mouth, but Claire had laughed, and she had felt ever so grateful to her best friend.

And now Fred was offering her a bag of marshmallows. There was something even less-smirky than usual in his face. And, even worse, he had just called her by her first name. Her eyes shot up to his, trying to see if he recognized the significance - as far as she knew, she had always been Bishop to him. Claire, who had just considered the thought that Fred Weasley had always considered her inferior, had just been named his equal with that word. And inexplicably, a lump found itself in her throat. She swallowed it down and reached out, almost certain he was going to pull the bag away from her at the last second. But he didn't. Fred Weasley was here. He had brought her comfort food. He had treated her like an equal.

All in all, he had sort of kept his word.

She blinked, hoping the shine in her eyes would be mistake for dwindling wrath, and took the marshmallows. She regarded them, turning them over in her hand, and then looked up at Fred, really wanting to tell him to leave, just because he had done so much to make her angry.

"Do you want a glass of wine?"

Their arguments always had very distinctive features. One of the most important ones being that they weren’t really arguments. Arguments required equal participation on both sides after all.

Not that Fred didn’t participate. Heck, he instigated most of the damn things. But that was the point, wasn’t it? He instigated them. He kindled the ember, and the reactionary flame was all Bishop. He specialised in drawing out ire from the almost coldly professional façade. Sure, she sometimes caught him off guard and managed to slide a little bit of ground from under his feet, flung back quips that piqued interest and amusement. But till now in the history of their interactions, Claire Bishop had not managed to get Fred angry. That was her job, her role in their dynamic; not his.

That fact seemed to be looking to change.

Damn, it had been like this even in that stupid dinner party, hadn’t it? One moment Fred had been gloating and feeling smug over his evident upper hand, the next minute Claire had smacked him right in the face with his own bluff, and no way to regroup. Now……now there hadn’t even been a question about who was ahead here, who would clearly maintain the position throughout, and yet Claire had managed to topple that with a single sentence.

”You’re one to talk about running.”

It hit him with all the subtlety and impact of a freight train. He stared, for a few seconds, and in those few the voices and faces of all of them- Jack, Lysander, James, Albus flashed before his memory like a Muggle cinema reel. The overwhelming, flashing wrath in the aftermath of that blinded his senses like a razor-hot whip.

F*ck all of them. What the hell was their problem anyway? Shit, at least Jack and Lys and the rest had some kind of right- they’d been his closest friends, whatever be their opinions. Who the hell gave Claire bloody Bishop the right to say anything about the way he chose to live his life? He’d made the stupid running comment with a lazy smirk, as a teasing goad to her own pride that didn’t really mean anything- Claire goddamn Bishop on the other hand sounded downright accusatory. Was she having so much difficulty in remembering that he didn’t owe her anything?

The smile was so, so much cooler now- brightened in its intensity but had lost all its warmth. “You give so much importance to yourself.” The words were a bare murmur, punctuated by cool, deliberate amusement- soft enough to be ignored, but there for Bishop to strain her ears and hear if she wanted to hear them. The tone was all genial now. “I’d managed to find a clue about the puzzle boxes that were cropping up everywhere. After tracking that down, since I was in the States already, I dropped in on my best mate. I had lived there for six years, you know. Lots of friends there, a life, a city that never sleeps. Don’t quite feel the urge to return sometimes. There’s not too much for me here.” And then, because it appeared his concern for her personal space was really short lived after all, he took a step forward, indomitable. “This really has nothing to do with the Marriage Law, Miss Bishop. Or you.”

Because contrary to popular belief, Fred actually wasn’t a two year old. No one achieved the kind of things he did on a regular basis by having the maturity and bullheadedness of a child. What, had Bishop actually believed he, Fred Weasley, who couldn’t keep track of who jumped in and out of his bed from month to month would get into a bleeding marriage for the sake of a ……what, challenge made in the heat of a moment? He’d given both of them what they wanted…… wasn’t getting, Merlin, married to him her worst nightmare too? Then why on earth was she sounding so frigging aggrieved?

Aggrieved.

And there, the blazing anger which he’d tempered and used as a weapon so effectively so far, had to falter. The reason why Fred could deliver answers to so many of his cases was because he never dismissed any answer to be impossible. There was no such thing as a too far-fetched answer. And his anger had been powering forward so far on the assumption that a woman who didn’t know him, who had no right to make him stay had been accusing him of leaving. Labelled him with cowardice. But something in the lines of her face, not hurt exactly but……no matter how farfetched it seemed…it raised the possibility that this wasn’t just some sanctimonious accusation. That she wasn’t exerting some imaginary right on him. That she’d just wanted him to tell her before he left.

And that…..that brought the vehemence to a standstill. That made him (Merlin forgive him for being blasphemous) almost… uncertain. Because people loved Fred Weasley, there never was any doubt about that. But wanting something beyond the jokes, the sex, the good times, the career boosts……family and some, very close, friends did that. Sometimes not even them. People generally didn’t go about looking for….meaning, in their relationships with Fred Weasley. Didn’t expect much. Didn’t feel hurt if he hadn’t told them before he left.

”Damn right this isn’t fair.” She said, with a ridiculously scratchy voice, and something in the whirling thoughts that had been taking over Fred’s brain made him back up the step he’d taken before, back of knees hitting the edge of the couch. He didn’t sprawl, didn’t appropriate or stake claim over the entirety of the sofa like the first time round- the limbs were folded, a conspicuous empty space left vacant to the right. The words were a quip, they always were, but something in them starkly contrasted to the incisiveness of the moments before, or even the blasé jibes when he’d first entered the room. Fred didn’t do gentle, and yet this tone was something awkwardly, curiously like it. “Hate to break the illusion, but contrary to what you think, I actually don’t spend all of my time plotting to embarrass you, you know. My International floo touched down just an hour back, I popped in here the moment it struck my head.” He’d smirked over it, sure, but this hadn’t been something malicious, premeditated.

Didn’t realise you in casuals was a State secret. His lips actually didn’t flicker to release this last piece of snark- Bishop was being shakier than usual, she didn’t need it. And Merlin, here he thought he was the one being ridiculous about her and pajamas. Fred’s eyes flickered over the light gleaming off the spectacle frames, the loose creases of the top clinging to her waist, the almost messy updo. Had anyone ever taken the time to tell this woman that it wasn’t a crime being human?

He bent forward, and thick, calloused fingers began effortlessly undoing the knots on the greasy polythene bags, setting the boxes on the table, the faint hot-sour smell of soya drifting from the uncovered, simmering food. Cocked his head to the side and flashed another quicksilver smile. “More of a beer man myself. But I suppose I wouldn’t mind some merlot.”

There was a shift in the energy between them when she accused him of being a runner, accused him of hypocrisy and cowardice. A flash of anger in his eyes, a shift from relaxed to strained in his smile. She had struck a nerve. So she wasn’t the only one to think he had run – or perhaps she had been the only one to call it what he knew it was. She couldn’t be sure because, despite her many run ins and her psychological war she had with Fred Weasley, they didn’t know each other that well. She couldn’t say who he actually trusted, who he actually called friend. But, really, could he say anything definite about her?
 
“You give so much importance to yourself.”
 
She felt something in her ribcage itching uncomfortably, wanting to open up her ribcage and crawl out, fling itself on Fred and pummel him. She wanted him to know that his very words made him sound like the self righteous one – the fact that he thought climbing in through her window with a lazy smirk could do anything but irritate her (just as ANYONE ELSE might be irritated) implied that he thought his presence changed everything. Fred Weasley was the kid on the playground who chided you by saying ‘you always have to have the last word’, effectively taking the last word from you and leaving you to either let him win or prove him right by pushing forward.
 
Merlin, was she up for another duel.
 
He attributed his disappearance to the puzzle boxes. And while she couldn’t dispute it, she felt that uncomfortable anger rise up again, this time mingled with the strongest flavor of envy she had tasted in quite a while. He thought he was fond of New York? He thought he had nothing to keep him here? Everything that she had to keep her here had all disappeared simultaneously. Her job, her alliances back home, her best friend, even the one rivalry she had that kept things at least a little interesting. She had found her life put on hold in a place that held no love for her while Fred went and relaxed in her home city. She didn’t have the right to feel wronged, maybe, yes, sure. But she could still feel jealous.
 
He stepped closer and she set her teeth, gritting them beneath her pursed lips, her eyes dancing with fire, her breath rising and falling more heavily than normal as she tried to keep a cool head. He wanted to push her – to what extent, she did not know. She wasn’t sure anyone had ever pushed her as much nor as far as Fred Weasley, and as curious as he was to find what she was capable of, she was a tad frightened to cross into uncharted territory. She was so used to being in control, but the Weasley man seemed intent on getting her to a place where she could claim little responsibility for her actions, having never visited it before. And, at this rate, he was going to get there.
 
But before things blew up, they deflated. The anger left his eyes, her breathing returned to normal, and he gave her some space. Now that adrenaline had begun to seep into her veins, she almost found herself disappointed at not having been pushed to her farthest extent, but she reminded herself that such a thing would mean victory for Fred Weasley and embarrassment for her, even if the release felt good in the meantime. No – it was good she wasn’t at his throat. That was the last thing she needed right now.
 
She blinked as he informed her that he had arrived at her home fairly soon, having put it as a top-priority errand it seemed. She… didn’t know how to take that. She couldn’t be flattered, obviously, as he had devised this particular way of dropping in to irritate her and to rob her of the perks of her prize. He was still an asshole for doing it, but he had thought to do it before he had thought to visit work, visit friends, visit family. But whatever. As he had so kindly informed her earlier, she had a habit for thinking herself too important. So she wasn’t going to think another thing about it.
 
He was here. That was it. Hip. Hip. Hooray.
 
“We have beer,” she said, before leaving him there. She snagged her wine glass as she went, happy to pour herself some more as she retrieved him a drink. She could hear him digging the boxes out of the larger bags as she crossed from the living room into the kitchen. She set the bag of marshmallows on the counter with her wine glass and pulled open the door of the refrigerator, grabbing one of the beers that Asher and Sutton insisted they keep for them. She topped off her glass of wine and took a sip, pausing as she scanned her kitchen. She was stalling. Sure. Whatever. She grabbed two plates and held them in one hand, clinging to the neck of the bottle and the stem of her glass with the other.
 
She entered back into the  living room and set the drinks on the coffee table, sliding the beer bottle towards Fred. She set the plates down, each in front of them, and then took a seat next to Fred Weasley. In her apartment. On her couch. With Chinese food.
 

What was her life?

If he didn’t know any better, he’d hazard a guess that Claire looked almost disappointed at the argument not escalating, at not being given a chance to fight.

He didn’t know any better.

Fred obscured a smirk behind the beer bottle he’d just been handed- oh, no matter how many times the woman insisted that he was the one intruding and interfering in her life, she was doing the backstroke right in the middle of the huge, massive sea of denial if she didn’t acknowledge that she craved the interactions every bit as much as he did. He’d have gotten bored a long time ago if there hadn’t been any response, after all. Nor would he have remained sitting here if she had willed it differently. Oh no, no matter how much she raged indignantly…….if Claire Bishop really, truly wanted him gone……well, it wouldn’t have made a jot to his persistence, obviously. He’d always been a professional at changing people’s minds. But things would have been a lot less.....interesting.

And it wasn’t the ‘niceness’ or the marshmallows. Claire Bishop thrived on every little bit of the snark and jibes and insults that Fred had ever tossed her way- even if she didn’t know it yet. Maybe if he was in a particularly generous mood, he might let her wallow in the luxury of obliviousness a little while longer.

“You know, if I didn’t know any better….” Condensation breathed across the cool glass of the bottle he pressed to his lips. “I’d say that you almost missed me.”

Or, you know. He might not.

She finally, finally sat down next to him, and while they doled out appropriate portions on the plates she’d spent ages scavenging for in the kitchen, Fred allowed himself to acknowledge that maybe this was a little…..strange. Being beside one another, not on opposite ends of a desk or a duelling strip. Made it feel almost like they were on the same side.

Fred swivelled a bit, shifting to the right slightly, bent knees moving to the left so he could face her more properly, if required. So that he could keep his eyes on every single part of her, if necessary. That was what they did, wasn’t it? Keep their eyes on each other, ever alert and wary to any sign of subterfuge. Not confrontational, just…..preparatory. He didn’t quite give recognition to that minuscule part of him that felt….better, at the action.

He tilted his chin back to drain a gulp of the beer, and closed his eyes in satisfaction at the alcoholic burn. “This stuff,” His voice began, even lower than usual. “is nastier than paint thinner. Really, really strong paint thinner. Wouldn’t have imagined the illustrious head of Law Enforcement to have such good taste.” Lashes rose as eyelids flickered open, and amber irises gleamed in sheer gratification. “But you don’t, do you?” We have beer, she said. We.

“Don’t tell me. This graveyard is actually inhabited by other people?” Long, dexterous fingers plucked a pair of chopsticks off the polished table surface and started winding them around the noodles, fresh steam billowing off the plate as he lifted them high. “……Norton, wasn’t it? Thought she’d have left her chaperone by now…” The tone was musing. “But then again, females tend to be more merciful to their taste buds. This atrocity is pure male pleasure. Which means…”

Morsel safely placed into the confines of his mouth, Fred chewed and swallowed, tanned throat working over the food, and then froze in mock parody. “No. Wait.” He closed his eyes, lifting a palm up into the air as if to halt all other intrusions. “My world view is getting radically altered here. You’re not saying…..” Eyes winked open gleefully, voice hushed in respect of the massive absurdity, the all-encompassing astonishment at the very idea. “..that Claire Bishop actually has a love life?”

And yes, perhaps he wasn’t being as ‘nice’ as she’d demanded. Reasons why said niceness wasn’t actually what she wanted, refer to paragraph number two. If she’d really wanted sweet, bland discussions of weather and books and movies, questions on ‘how’s life been lately,’, touching interest in the various insipidities of her daily life- then she’d have asked somebody, anybody else. This was…..this is him, in all of his unapologetic, brash glory. Besides, in the past few minutes, his comments had tapered down from the in-your-face offensive to the cheekily audacious, the smart-alec, smooth charm tending to the long-winded theatricality he generally exhibited in front of friends and family. This was as nice as Fred Weasley got......at least to blonde contemporaries that returned back sass as good as he gave.

Besides. Fred snuck another smirk behind a second draught of chilled, gloriously cheap beer. He was starting to have a sneaky suspicion that Claire Bishop liked him exactly the way he was.