CHRYSALIS - FRED WEASLEY

CHAPTER 23

CW: NSFW. 

Lillie can feel the rough-hewn stone moving in front of her, each ancient rock grinding against the others in a dance choreographed to the last thread of carpet, the last log on the hearth beyond. The sound sits low in her stomach, the scraping nearly indistinguishable from the buzzing nerves that also settle there. Her eyes are squeezed closed and her hand is sweaty in Freds and she is sure he can feel her pulse thundering through every vein and capillary.

They only dare to open their eyes once the shuffling of stone stops. They don't have to shut their eyes while they wait for the Room of Requirement to work; but it's become a sort of superstition between them, a way to preserve the unknown and imaginative wonder the Room invites when you first stumble across it.

"It gets shy," Fred had said one day as they waited side by side in front of the wall, "Stage fright, it can be debilitating. We have to close our eyes, or else it won't perform."

Fred lets go of her hand to push the door open, walking fully inside. Lillie follows.

Stepping into the room feels like stepping into another time, a world centuries after the medieval castle was first built. The Arthurian fashionings of Hogwarts vanish beyond the nondescript oak door, replaced by the dark, ornate splendor that marks the late 19th century.

Lillie brushes her fingers along the floral wallpaper, the embossing creating the feeling of thick foliage, briar patches and branches, sparrows perched in trees. The pattern never seems to repeat, making the wall more resemble a rambling mural than a produced wallpaper. She runs her hands along the finely oiled wooden beams that reach to the ceiling and branch, forming an interconnected support for the roof above.

From the left wall juts an alcove, a wood-paneled nook that stretches the length of the room. The bed, covered with light green brocaded silk sheets nestles within the gaping space in the wall; it is framed, like painting in a museum, by swirling, carved wood meticulously engraved with scenes from the Tale of the Three brothers, a story familiar to both Fred and Lillie from their childhoods. Adjacent to the bed is a sort of parlor, three seats situated around a crackling fireplace. The air is laced with smells that speak of antiquity, warmth and comfort: anise and cinnamon, dusty wood, crisp night.

Fred takes his jacket off as he crouches to the fire, toking it with the iron and letting the logs collapse on themselves, sending up small sparks into the licking flames. He does this needlessly, a thing to occupy his mind–the room never lets fires burn out.

She walks behind where he sits on his haunches and rubs his arm, down to where his elbow rests on his knee. She puts her palm on the side of his face furthest from her and turns it. His eyes tear from the fire, the shadows on the dim room moving across his face and illuminating his profile, then the side of his flushed cheek.

He smiles up at her when she stands and extends her hands, palms up, to him. He grabs them and pulls himself up--Lillie grunts, pretending to strain against his body weight. He scoffs and places each of his own palms against her cheeks. He momentarily squishes them together, kisses her chastely, then relaxes them. He smiles fondly at the two red marks left by his hands, but his cock twitches in his pants. He wants to make more red marks, in other places.

He goes to brush her hair from her face at the exact moment she turns her head to look at the bed, creating an awkward, clunky movement that results in him poking her eyebrow. They laugh, then quiet, studying each other.

"Can I tell you something?" she whispers.

"Of course."

"I'm a bit," she pauses, tugging the strap of her dress, "I'm a bit nervous to sleep with you. Excited," she adds, "But really nervous." His face, previously stony and unreadable, collapses into a relieved smile.