- author's ramblings -

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was no problem for Margaret, and Fred knew this. However, this did not stop her from annoying him.

"Are we there yet?" she asks for the umpteenth time, her fingers laced with his as he pulled her along.

"Not yet."

"...How about now?"

"No."

"And now?"

Fred did not answer, but she heard him huff.

"Is this it?" she questions, smirking.

"Almost there, Margie."

"Why'd you have to- ow, Fred, that was a rock!"

"Oh, whoops," says he, pulling her towards him even if it was too late. He pointed his lit wand at the ground and then up at her, causing her to avert her eyes to avoid being blinded. "See? This is why you should focus! Now hush up and keep walking if you want to make it there before dawn."

Margaret rolled her eyes playfully.

When Fred had told her to meet near the Whomping Willow before dinner, a date in the Forbidden Forest was the last thing she expected. However, with Fred, things were nearly always unexpected.

Her red eyes darted around, watching in the darkness of the Forbidden Forest. It was not frightening; she liked it in fact. The canopy of trees that overshadowed the forest floor even in the sunlight caused the forest to be even darker at night.

In the distance, she could see the slight fog blanketing the uneven grounds, and she could hear the crickets in the undergrowth, the owls hooting above in the dark treetops, and the occasional howl or screech of an unknown creature. What caught her attention, however, was that she could hear water not too far away, like a low-force stream.

She said nothing for a few moments, taking in the serenity of the Dark Forest, then:

"Are we there yet?"

"No!"

Five minutes later, Fred stopped, muttering "Nox" and pocketing his wand. He moved behind her and, all of a sudden, covered her eyes with one hand and placed his free one on her shoulder to guide her.

"What-?"

"Shush, it's a surprise," he tells her, voice laced with amusement. "Keep walking straight."

She would have rolled her eyes if she could. "Is this where you kill me?"

"Nah," says Fred lightly. "Unless you're surprised to death... That'd be unfortunate; we did work hard for this, y'know?"

Margaret scoffed. A few moments later, she suddenly felt like they had passed through a very thin curtain of humid air.

"What was that?" she asks seriously, stopping in them in their tracks. She could hear the tinkling of waters clearly now, almost tasting the dampness in the air, feeling it on her skin.

"Protective enchantments," Fred answers. "Wouldn't want any fantastic beasts to ruin our date, now, would we?"

"You've prepared this very well," she mumbles, mildly impressed. "Can I see it now?"

"Yes, but before you do so," Fred begins softly as though not wanting to disrupt the tranquil ambience, "I, well, I wanted to tell you that I've never done this before... Ever. For anyone... So it might not be perfect but..." he takes a deep breath, "I didn't want to leave without giving you a proper parting gift," he says quickly but sincerely.

Fred dropped his hand from over her eyes and she opened them, blinking at the sight in front of them. A soft gasp escaped her as she looked around. Fred wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on the top of her head.

It was truly breathtaking what he – and George, Margaret was sure – had created.

They were in a moor, in the centre of which was, once again, a wooden table set up for two but this time it was rather fancy with a white table cloth and white coverings on the chairs. There were two empty plates, a bottle of what seemed to be champagne, as well as a basket of food on the table. In the centre were two lit candles held up by a silver candle stand. Lighting up the table were several yellow light bubbles.

But that was not all, not even close.

There was a low force stream, she was right about that, and it surrounded a moor in a semicircle. There were vines dangling from the broad trees on the side, with green leaves and delicate flowers, lit up by small magical lights floating in the air like overgrown fireflies, and weaving in between these were smoky wisps of blue, provide a foggy azure illumination to the water and the grass.

"Wow..."

Fred chuckled at her reaction. "Gonna take a guess and say you like it..."

"Like it?" she says incredulously, turning around in his arms, beaming up at him, "I love it! What the heck? It is perfect!"

A bright smile grows on Fred's face, unlike any Margaret had ever seen him give her, and he leaned down, lips locking with hers; she wrapped her arms around his neck, rising to her tiptoes.

They pulled apart for air several blissful moments later and let out a breathless laugh, both of their cheeks painted rouge. He was so close now that she could count his constellations of freckles under the surreal blue and yellow hue. His toffee brown eyes closed as he rested his forehead against her, and she couldn't help but smile.

"Reckoned you'd fancy seeing the beauty of magic after that vision you had this morning," he tells her, his voice barely above a whisper. Although the last thing she wanted to think about at that moment was about the terrifying future, she was touched by his thoughtfulness.

Margaret had indeed had a vision that morning on their way to breakfast, the first time she had had one after Christmas. Once again, it had happened when she least expected it, her eyes showing her not the chattering students in the early morning sunlight but debris in the darkness and flashing lights of deadly spells.

Fred, who had been the only one to notice her suddenly tensed state, immediately pulled her away from their group to make sure she was okay. And now, he had gone out of his way to ensure that she felt better.

Part of her was nervously excited about felt this strange sort of twisting sensation spreading through her chest, one that was mingled with gratitude, adoration, disbelief and a hint of another blossoming feeling for this boy whom she did not deserve.

Whilst another part of her, one that likely stemmed from logic and one that she had never understood, was indifferent.

How could she possibly stand there and pretend that they had forever when she knew what was in store for him in exactly two years? The further she stayed from unimportant things like feelings, the better she would be able to concentrate on her tasks.

This caused a bitter taste to fill her mouth as Fred pulled away, taking her hand and guiding her towards the table, saying something about how they had arranged as many Canadian food items as possible this time.

However, Margaret only smiled and nodded absently. Part of her was cold to this all. Unfeeling. She did not understand it, nor did she wish to accept its opinions, but she was not new to feeling that way.

Perhaps she was not letting herself accept the fact that she could be liked by people; that she was no longer surrounded by those who would pick at any vulnerability she showed. Perhaps she was afraid of moving on and forgetting her brother. Perhaps it was because the present and future were awfully blended in her mind.

Whatever it was that made her feel that way, she wished it would go away. Fred did not deserve that, he had done nothing wrong.

Margaret looked up at him as he moved to his seat after pulling out the chair for her, smiling to conceal her sadness as he sparked up a conversation about how he and George had gotten this idea from what she had made the Room of Requirement to look like, hoping it would remind her of home.

Oh, Fred, she thought as he said this, you deserve so much better...

But Margaret was not the one to give up. Not yet. So she picked up the two tube glasses he had just poured champagne into, handed one to him and touched the tops.

"Clink, clink, let's have a drink!" she says brightly, not a hint of her inner dilemma visible on her features.

Fred raised an amused brow as he raised his glass to his lips. "That's a new one."

She took a sip, swallowing the bitter feeling with the crystalline pearls of champagne, and smiled earnestly. "It's just something my friends and I used to say back home whenever we were having any beverages."

They spent the rest of the evening enjoying the delicious meal prepared by the house-elves and chatting about a variety of things. Margaret found it funny that everything was so impeccably magical and fancy, and they had a side dish of avocado toast.

"You know," she speaks up as something occurs to her, "you could've told me to dress better."

"You look perfect," he tells her pointedly. She was wearing one of his old sweaters with an 'F' on it, this one not too large on her, finished with jeans and boots. Whilst Fred was wearing a jumper, trousers and trainers. "And it's not supposed to be fancy-schmancy, Margie. Just fun," he adds.

"Not a fan of fancy, are you?"

Fred's nose scrunched up as he shook his head. She chuckled at this.

"Anyway," she begins curiously, "I've been meaning to ask you, how'd you and George arrange a premises and the permit for the shop while being at Hogwarts?"

"Nothing we can't pull off..."

Fred went on to tell her how he and George had acquired the premises for their shop during summer break, just before she showed up, and had finally received the permit last week. Apparently, the twins had had it sent to Bill, who knew about their plans and who sent them a letter indicating that he had received it. They did this so that Umbridge would not find out that they were planning on leaving. Margaret thought that it was an incredibly smart idea.

On the other hand, he asked her if she had decided what she wanted to do after Hogwarts.

"Nothing," Margaret answers simply. "I just want to sleep..."

"Now that sounds like a plan," Fred teases, amused. "If all else fails, you are always welcome to come work at our shop; we'll be sure to give you a pay raise," he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Oh, thank you!" she gasps, dropping her spoon, playing along. "It's settled then, I'll just say to Professor McGonagall tomorrow that I will spend the rest of my life working part-time in a joke shop. She'll be really thrilled."

"You could just work full time; Minnie'll love it," Fred suggests, grinning mischievously.

Margaret shot him a smirk. "Or so I'll pretend to," she drops her voice conspiringly, "before your shop is mysteriously transferred to my name and no one shall ever find out how!" She added a cheesy evil laugh for good measure before they both laughed.

"In all honesty," Margaret continues after a moment, "I really have no clue what I want to do. I mean, not to brag or anything but I do have enough gold to live in a quiet countryside cottage with twelve cats all alone, grow old, and do what adults do I guess..." She sighed, giving Fred a weary smile. "Minnie'll sure love to hear that..."

"You won't be alone," says he lightly. "I'll come visit every other weekend."

"Every other weekend?" she asks, raising a brow.

Fred stared at her mischievously, chewing his food slowly. "If you cut down to two cats, I might show up every weekend."

"They won't be all cats!" she defends. "Some of them would be part-kneazles or kneazles."

"Yes, that is so comforting," he states sarcastically. "And you'll choose cats over me?!"

"Cats over you any day, Gred," she deadpans. "Any day."

Fred made a show of pouting and pushing the food on his plate sadly, causing her to snort into her champagne.

A little while later, she told him about the suspiciously loud snores they heard once in a while.

"Hagrid has a brother?" asks Fred, surprised.

"Half-brother," she answers. "His name is Grawp; I'm surprised we didn't see him. Hagrid doesn't want anyone to know about this, though; in case Umbridge finds out."

"How'd he manage to sneak in a giant is remarkable," he comments, looking mildly impressed. "Not the first time he has something he's not s'posed to, eh?"

"Not the last time either," Margaret agrees, chuckling.

They were not too far into the forest, according to Fred. The clearing where the fifth years had seen the thestrals was even further from where they were. He thought it would be good to have some privacy, and that would not happen under the halt of their new irksome Headmistress.

After they had finished their food, Fred sneakily took a polaroid of her when she was not looking. It was a tradition at this point.

Margaret had her dual earphones with her and she put on some songs which gave him the idea to dance. To put it simply, the two of them goofed around like monkeys because they could not be bothered to slow dance. The only reason they stopped only because they were laughing too hard to even stand up straight. Margaret rested her forehead on Fred's shoulder, wiping a tear from her cheek, both of them still shaking in mirth.

"By the way," says Fred after they calm down, "anytime you feel the need to get away from Umbridge and her circus, feel free to show up at the shop."

Margaret tilted her head to look up at him, feeling surprised but very touched. Fred smirked.

"Or you know, if you just miss two of the most handsome blokes at Hogwarts," he adds.

She blinked up at him, pretending to be confused. "Two?"

Fred narrowed his eyes at her.

"Well," she goes on, "there's George, of course... and," she trails off, frowning thoughtfully. "Yeah, no, I can't think of- eek! Don't-tickle-me!"

Squealing in between breathless laughter and turning around in his arms with much struggle, Margaret tried her best to squirm away from him but to no avail. He had locked her arms together with one hand whilst the other tickled her mercilessly.

"Fredrick Weasley-! I swear-!"

To Fred, however, this was way too easy. He could make her laugh all day. He and George always believed laughter was the best kind of magic and so their entire life was dedicated to it.

Although Fred did not understand why Margaret's laugh was a different kind of magic... It made his heart do a silly trick of some sort, as though it had skipped a beat. It was odd, he was not used to feeling that way but he did not complain. It was good emotion, one that he only felt with her, one that he wanted to keep feeling.

Little did he know, that was the exact thing Margaret was theoretically incapable of feeling.

CAREER ADVICE

Professor McGonagall's office was rather antique looking, with more than a few Gryffindor touches. There was a red-and-gold banner on the wall behind her desk with the Gryffindor lion emblem, the furniture was polished oaken wood and the decorations like the clock that read ten past noon or some photo frames lining the walls were golden. Other than that, it was neat and tidy, not a single quill out of line.

The aspect of nuisance was not the office, and certainly not Professor McGonagall herself, but the new Headmistress sat in the corner with a clipboard on her knee with a horrible little smug smile stretched across her toad-like face.

"Well, Miss Xenakis, this meeting is to talk over any career ideas you might have, and to help you decide which subjects you should continue into sixth and seventh years," says Professor McGonagall. "Have you had any thoughts about what you would like to do after you leave Hogwarts?"

"Erm," Margaret hesitates. "Well, the thing is, Professor, I haven't been able to put much thought into what I would like to do after... Hogwarts."

Professor Umbridge gave a little giggle, which Professor McGonagall promptly ignored.

Professor McGonagall nodded. "I expected as much; you are not quite used to the British curriculum," she says, extracting two leaflets from under her desk. "All your teachers, including myself, have given good feedback on your progress. Professor Snape even tells me you've got quite an aptitude for Potions."

Margaret blinked, taken aback. "Really?"

Professor McGonagall glanced up at her, nodding. "That is quite a compliment coming from Professor Snape, so I'd believe so." She then opens up one of the leaflets, a small red one with the crossed bone-and-wand emblem of St. Mungo's in the front, reading it, "There are quite some scopes with Potions. You're currently taking all the subjects required for a job as a Healer – Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. If you continue to take these in your sixth and seventh year, you would require an E at N.E.W.T. level in all of the aforementioned subjects."

"Have a look," says Professor McGonagall, passing over the leaflet to Margaret, "take your time. You have until the end of summer holidays to decide, though you must achieve required grades in your O.W.Ls" She then opens the second leaflet, "You could, of course, pursue a career of a Potioneer. Potioneers are those who work for or open their own Apothecary; in other words, a pharmacy."

Professor McGonagall handed her the second leaflet as well.

Margaret scanned the requirements for the careers as well as their benefits and pay. However, she did not feel connected with either of those options. It was true that she enjoyed Potions, but she had not put much thought into any wizarding career choices. She was often too bothered with righting the future of the magical world to think about her own.

Even in her own world, she was not entirely decisive about what she wanted to do in her life which was why she had aimed to finish high school a year earlier and take a gap year to clear her mind and look at her options. However, before her senior year could even begin, she was sent to the Wizarding world.

"Now, do you have any particular preference for a subject or career other than these?" asks Professor McGonagall, causing Margaret to look up.

"Well, to be quite frank, I haven't really decided on anything yet," she answers honestly. "I would like to keep my options open, of course, and keep looking at career guides to see-"

"Hem, hem."

Professor McGonagall's eye twitched. "Still don't need a cough drop, Dolores?" asks she sharply.

"No, dear," says Professor Umbridge in a horribly honeyed tone. "I was merely wondering... Wouldn't Miss Xenakis be inspired by her parents' careers? I am quite aware that they are no more, however, wouldn't their muggle careers inspire you?"

There was a mildly bewildered expression on Professor McGonagall's face, and Margaret realised that she did not know the entire story about Margaret's near-expulsion.

"That is of no matter, Miss Xenakis can choose what she wants to do," says Professor McGonagall, her lips pursed into thin line when she looked at Margaret clearly saying 'we shall speak about this later'.

"Of course," says Professor Umbridge sweetly. "I'm merely trying to help, Minerva."