The Tale of Jamie Devereaux

Don't Mind Me, Just Cutting the Tension

Chapter Forty-Four: Don't Mind Me, Just Cutting the Tension

Fred Weasley had many flaws. He often took jokes too far, he was stubborn, and it was difficult for him to see things in other people's eyes. The night Jamie Devereaux Bruce broke up with him in a heat of anger, he refused to process it. Fred sat on the couch of the common room and waited for Jamie to come back down. Waited for her to not be able to sleep and retreat to the warmth of the fire as she normally did. When hours went by Fred attempted to scale the stairs to the girls dormitory, but was quickly sent back down a transfigured slide.

The red headed boy paced, sat, tapped his foot, and agonized over what the little blonde was surely thinking. He knew Jamie was awake. Even if Angelina and him hadn't destroyed every last bit of her sleeping draught, Fred would have known she was awake. His mind went to what his Jamie would have been thinking at that moment. How her being alone and festering in anger was surely not doing him any favors. Why? Fred groaned, running his hand through his hair for the thousandth time that night. Why had he done that?

Fred continued to see the stricken face of the half-Veela. How distraught and out of control she had looked. How she had lied to him because Jamie felt like she had to. Fred's heart clenched in his chest and he sank deeper into the plush chair. His eyes were heavy and his body tired but he didn't want to sleep. He didn't feel he deserved to sleep, if it was because of him that Jamie would be tossing and turning all night. Why? Fred asked himself again. This was by far the most irrational and cruel thing he had ever done. Besides perhaps kissing Mallory Norden. But even that action had less malice than breaking her sleeping draught potion. He should have gone to Minerva McGonagall or talked Jamie through it or done literally anything else. Fred's hand found his way to his hair once again. Even though he was exhausted and emotionally drained, Fred Weasley found himself staying awake and watching the staircase to the girl's dormitory like a man obsessed. When the sun began to rise and Gryffindors trickled down through the common room on their way to the Great Hall, Fred continued to wait for his little witch to emerge. He didn't know what to say, but he knew he needed to be there the second she walked down. Fred just needed her to hear how much he regretted his actions. His heart clenched again, this time harder. Jamie couldn't not be with him. He needed her. Fred's main issue was making sure that she needed him as well.

Angelina Johnson came down, looking exhausted and puffy eyed. The chaser hurried over to Fred, holding her hand out to him in a comforting gesture, "She is going to come down soon I think but..." The Gryffindor girl swallowed hard, "but she won't come to breakfast with me. It's the first time James hasn't walked with me." Angelina had never seen Jamie Devereaux look at her with such an impassive stare as the blonde witch had done that morning. It was harrowing and painful to receive. Fred stood and pulled Angelina into a tight hug.

As if more things could not have gone wrong for the pair of them, that was the moment George Weasley decided to emerge from his own dorm room. When he reached the bottom of the stairs and saw Angelina and Fred holding onto one another, something sick twisted in his gut. His jaw tightened and eyes narrowed at the pretty Quidditch player's small hands tightening on Fred's sweater for comfort. Fred's chin rested on top of Angelina's head and, while the embrace was nothing more than friendly, George's heart raced and face heated. Instead of greeting the pair, Fred's twin walked out of the common room and found his own way to the Great Hall. Neither Fred nor Angelina noticed.

The chaser left for breakfast and Fred stood, leaning against the back of the common room couch directly in front of the stairs. When the short witch came into view, Fred practically propelled himself in her direction, "Jamison—" He started, his tone pleading.