Langlock

This time, Margaret was the one unprepared. Her head jerked back and she dropped to the ground by the force of it. Her grip on her wand loosened and it fell, but Margaret was too busy covering her mouth with her hands, her focus on her tongue that was now glued to the roof of her mouth. People around her found this even more amusing as they burst into raucous laughter.

She stared at Fred, whose eyes were as wide as hers as he got to his feet, seemingly feeling guilty at the jinx he had chosen. Before he could even take a step towards her, Margaret's eyes glowed and she reached out.

Two scarlet wisps shot straight from her palm to his wand which he was gripping tightly. He yelped as the wand flew out of his hand and towards her. She caught it expertly then shot a non-verbal leg-lock jinx at him and he crashed back down.

No one spoke this time as the laughter calmed down into a hush. They all looked at each other quizzically, wondering what had happened and if they were seeing things.

Margaret blinked rapidly until the red haze disappeared. As her eyesight cleared, she found Harry approaching her and holding out a hand. She took it, grabbing her own wand from her side before pulling herself to her feet.

"Here, let me help with that," says Harry, performing the counter-jinx. Margaret coughed as her tongue was freed, feeling a sour taste fill her mouth instead. Harry turns to the rest of the D.A., "Get back to practising, everyone."

At once, everyone returned to their duels but Margaret had a feeling that they had already seen her small display of powers. Surprisingly, that was not what she was concerned about. Her eyes locked with Fred's, who had been untied from her jinx courtesy of George who also pulled him up.

"You should go to the hospital wing, get that checked out" Harry suggests. "I know how horrible your mouth feels after one of those jinxes."

Margaret realised as he said it that her tongue did feel swollen, and resisted the urge to glare at Fred, who was now approaching with George.

"I'll go with you," says Fred, trying to smile at her but it looked more like a grimace. Margaret did not even attempt to reply, rolling her eyes at him and thrusting his wand back into his hand. She was compatible enough to look after herself just fine. "Hey, it's only fair if I do. It's my fault," Fred tells her.

"Besides, curfew for fifth years started about an hour ago, whereas for seventh years there's still an hour left," George reasons. "If Fred's with you, you're less likely to get into trouble if you're caught."

Margaret shot him a look of disbelief. Being out after the curfew with one of the twins meant she was more likely than ever to get into trouble.

Harry opened his mouth, looking as confused as she did before Margaret caught a glimpse of the fleeting look George sent him. Before she could deduce what it meant, Harry took out the Marauders Map.

"Coast's clear. It's, er, it's settled then," says he. "Go on and be careful. Just return to the common room after."

Margaret sighed and Fred grinned. George turned away from them to Neville, who looked between her and Fred then at Harry who was walking away and then glanced at George with visible confusion.

"C'mon then, Margie," says Fred, offering her his arm, while his twin told Neville that he would practice with him as both their partners were gone. "Off we go valiantly for our quest- hey, wait for me!"

Margaret had brushed past him, not having the strength to bother with his dramatics. Fred fell into step with her and held the door open as they exited the room, leaving the chatter of spells behind and into the dark hallway of the seventh floor. Unwillingly, their steps slow down, trying to make as little noise as possible.

"Are you mad at me?" Fred asks a moment later, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "I'm sorry, by the way. I should've gone for a less-lethal jinx."

"Yeah, you should have."

Fred stopped still in his tracks, holding his head in his hands. Margaret turned to him with a barely suppressed smile.

"Did you just-? What was that?!" he breathes, staring at her figure in the milky moonlight that poured in from the high-arched window on the side. "You just spoke in my mind," he states.

"Yes, because if I talk out loud it's going to sound like I'm doing a really bad impression of an Italian accent," she tells him, her lips not moving but her voice resonating through his head that he holds tighter.

"Stop that!" he says, sounding a bit panicked.

Margaret frowned but no longer said anything. She jutted a thumb behind her, urging him to start walking again.

"So..." Fred begins slowly, falling into step with her again, "you can speak into people's heads? Just nod or shake your head to answer, please!"

Margaret nodded, looking straight ahead, having no difficulty seeing in the dark.

"And what you did back there, you disarmed me without your wand," Fred goes on, his mind whirring rapidly trying to piece information about this strange girl together, even though none of it made sense.

"Telekinesis," she answers simple, causing Fred to flinch slightly. "Sorry."

"Telekinesis?" he asks, as though tasting the word. "What's telekinesis?"

Margaret raised her brows at him, wondering if he would like for her to explain it in his head. Fred hesitated, then nodded once.

"Telekinesis is the power of mind. It enables one to move things without touching them, simply with sheer determination that originates in their head. Hence why I didn't need a wand to snatch yours," she says in his mind.

"So it's a type of magic, then," Fred says, scratching his ear uncomfortably.

"You can say that."

"Can anyone learn it?" he asks curiously.

Margaret frowned. She had not thought of that. Dumbledore had mentioned that it was an evolved form of magic but had not explained if it could be learnt by any witch or wizard. She'd had them since she got struck by lightning the first time and had mastered their basics for what they were.

"I dunno..."

Before Fred could ask anything else, they reached the hospital wing. Fred said the password and pushed open the double doors as Madam Pomfrey came hurrying out of her office.

"What's wrong?" asks the matron, scanning the two of them for any visible injuries.

"Langlock jinx," Fred says simply, pointing at Margaret.

"Ah," says Madam Pomfrey, her concern disappearing as she turns to the cabinet of potions. "Jinx gone wrong?"

"She's still a rookie, Madam," Fred tells her, sighing sympathetically and ignoring the scorching look Margaret sent him.

"You should be more careful, Miss...?" Madam Pomfrey trails off, not knowing Margaret's last name.

"Wea-"

"FREDRICK!"

"AH! Xenakis, it's Xenakis!" Fred shouts, holding his head in pain again and yet having the audacity to snicker at her.

Madam Pomfrey turned to him, alarmed. "No need to yell, Mister Weasley," she tells him sternly before walking to Margaret, who was now glaring daggers at Fred, with two glasses. "Here, drink this. It'll help with the swelling. Then drink water to wash down the aftertaste."

Margaret took the shimmering pink potion, cringing at the taste before gulping down the glass of water.

"Well? How do you feel?" Fred asks after a moment.

"Better," she says, her voice cracking but at least her tongue wasn't swollen anymore. She clears her throat before adding, "Much better."

Madam Pomfrey kindly wrote them both a late pass, mostly because she was glad they had thought of coming to her as most students simply chose to ignore the aftereffects of jinxes until they either went away or got worse. She then ordered both of them to return to their common room immediately.

"I'm a rookie at duelling?!" Margaret turns on him as soon as the double doors seal shut behind them. "Excuse me, I beat you!"

"What Poppy doesn't know won't hurt her," Fred shrugs, a smirk playing at his lips.

"And what was that about?" Margaret asks sharply. "Miss 'Weasley'? Why?"

Fred kept his tone light, "Well, you're family, aren't you? I was just joking to get a jibe at you."

"So like a sister," Margaret says, her brows furrowed.

"No, not as a sister," Fred responds quickly. "Just as close as family, I s'pose. You should dye your hair red already."

He winked at her and she pushed him away playfully. He didn't know why he was suddenly very aware of his steps. Was he walking weirdly? If not, then why did he feel the need to simultaneously run away as far as he could and stay there with her for as long as possible? He had never, not once in his life, had to sort out through complicated feelings, and this felt odd and exciting and he didn't know what to do.

"Yeah, all right," she mutters. She would be lying if she said her stomach had not just done a backflip. He truly considered her as close as family, and she wondered briefly if she even deserved that.

"You're coming to the Burrow for Christmas, aren't you?" Fred asks in an attempt to change the topic.

"I am," she confirms. Indeed, she was. Ginny had told her days ago that Mrs Weasley had invited her over for Christmas and would not take no as an answer. However, Margaret knew that none of them was going to spend Christmas at the Burrow. She had not forgotten what would be happening in just a few hours.

Mr Weasley was going to be attacked tonight. He would nearly die. But he would survive... Nevertheless, be in pain for several upcoming days.

It had not left her mind for many days now, trying over and over to think if something could be changed, if she could save him. But alas, this was one of the things she could not change. Yet here she was, walking with his son casually as though she was blissfully unaware of Mr Weasley's fate. She never thought keeping secrets would eat her alive...

She looked out of the high-arched stone windows of the seventh floor at the night that was quiet and chilly. Only the outlines of snow-capped mountains were visible as light snow dotted the sky. The moon was a hazy sight, peeking cheekily out of the clouds and disappearing a moment after.

It all felt calm... Too calm. And Margaret wondered how this beautiful place would be a battlefield to the most gruesome fight in Wizarding history.

She frowned. Something had changed in the air. Her head felt like a vacuum, as though empty glasses were strapped to her ears. Someone was screaming. But it was muffled.

Her eyes turned back to the front, noticing absently that the tapestry with dancing trolls was approaching. She was near the Room of Requirement. Why was she there again?

Although her surroundings changed. She was walking through a battle.

She is walking through a battle.

A loud explosion shakes the ground. She stumbles. Her ears are ringing. It is the loudest thing she has ever heard. Rocks fall. The wall and the ceiling collapse forward...

"NO! No - no - no!"

A man with horn-rimmed glasses dives across the floor, pushing boulders away, throwing a spell to break them apart. A second later, he is shaking something- no, someone. Only a few feet from where she stands...

Red hair streaked with blood. Brown eyes open, unseeing. A last laugh etched to the face. The body limp.

Then there's the unmistakable figure of Ron. Kneeling on the debris, holding his head, horrified.

"No! Fred! No!"

"Margaret! MARGARET!"

The pain in her knees was the first thing she registered and then the lack of air in her lungs. She had collapsed on the ground and someone was shaking her.

"Margaret!"

"F-Fred...?"

"Yes, it's Fred... Tell me your name, can you say your name?" he asks.

"M-Margaret," she murmurs in a small voice.

"Margaret what?"

"Margaret Xenakis..."

"Good. Hey, it's okay, we're in Hogwarts, remember? You're safe," he tells her, keeping his voice light but sincere. Fred had taken her shaking hands in his, kneeling next to her, his brown eyes wide as he looked at how much she had paled and how badly she was shivering.

It had all happened so suddenly...

"Fred," she says more firmly, looking up to make sure it was really him. Her heart was trying to break out of her ribcage and flee. What she saw was horrifying... She knew her mind would show it to her again in the darkness of the night when she drifted in between sleep and consciousness.

She never wanted to see that ever again. Not him, not Fred...

"Deep breaths, okay? Take deep breaths," he mutters, shifting closer to her to give her some warmth.

Margaret tried doing as he said but was finding difficulty in trying to breathe. The darkness was closing in on her. Her stomach lurched dangerously but she begged her body not to empty her guts. Everything felt hot, even though it was still snowing outside.

"What happened?"

"You were hallucinating, I think," he says, his voice as natural as he could make it. "You just had that look on your face again, like you'd seen something terrible..."

She shook her head rapidly in hopes that it would make the image disappear from behind her eyelids, but it only made her dizzier.

"Okay, all right. It's okay. Talk to me, then, about anything," he says quickly. "I can't leave you alone like this to go get some help-"

"No!" she gasps, her breaths coming out in small puffs. "No, call no one... don't leave... please, Fred..."

"I won't, I'm here. Talk to me. Don't disappear in your head. Remember what's real, Margie."

"I can't! I-I don't... I don't know why or how it... I hated that- Never again, I don't... ever wanna see that again..."

"What did you see?" asks Fred again instinctively, before cringing. She just said she did not wish to recall it. He opened his mouth to tell her she didn't have to but Margaret beat him to it.

"The future," she answers, shutting her eyes tightly. "I-It's like visions... of horrible things... but... they feel so real-"

"You don't have to talk about it," he tells her earnestly, reaching up to gently wipe a tear, the back of his fingers brushing her cheek.

At the contact, she glanced up. He looked so worried but it was clear that he was trying to keep his calm for her. This was the second time he had brought her out of a vision, even though the last time she had been aware of her surroundings. This time, however, she could not seem to anchor herself to reality.

"Deep breaths, just like that," he repeats gently, making her focus on her breathing again.

Her chest hurt the more she breathed but she kept on filling her lungs with air until the knot in her throat dissipated a little.

"Good," Fred says, taking both her hands again. "Keep breathing, Margie. As long as you're breathing, you'll be all right..."

Margaret was not the one to outwardly hate something, but at the moment, she absolutely loathed the fact that they were sitting in the place he would die in, in three years' time. But he was right there, alive and breathing and in front of her. His brown eyes were wide and seeing and fixated on her. There was not a hint of a smile on his face, only concern.

He was real.

Or was he?

What if he was already dead? What if he was another visage? What if the war was already over?

What if she had already failed?

Without thinking, she threw her arms around his neck.

Fred didn't hesitate in holding her shaking figure, rubbing her back slowly and letting her bury her head in his shoulder. He wondered how horrifying the future must be for her to have episodes like these. He was never the one to suffer from nightmares, so it was even harder for him to imagine having one with his eyes open. She seemed so put together in her poise, but each time she saw something no one else did, she seemed to break away from the present and into something that clearly haunted her.

Margaret could feel his heartbeat resonating through his chest. A sob choked in her throat, but she did not allow herself to cry. She would not allow herself to be vulnerable. She had to be strong... She just had to be.

So she let herself to momentarily accept the comfort from Fred, letting herself feel safe within his enclosed arms while telling herself that they were going to be just fine.

As long as he was breathing... he would be all right.

was quiet except for the furious scratching of a quill against the paper.

Margaret sat on the hearthrug near the snuffed out fire, making notes for Transfiguration to distract herself from the anxiety that was bubbling up in the pit of her stomach. She hissed as she crossed out another word that she had misspelt. Her mind was refusing to corporate.

It had taken her a long time to convince Fred that she was all right and that she did not need to go back to the hospital wing. He had accompanied her back to the common room, walking slowly beside her and glancing at her from the corner of his eyes each time she as much as exhaled as though he expected her to collapse again at any given moment. He looked rather worried to let her go, but she reassured him that she would truly be fine. She even made him swear not to tell anyone anything about what had happened; to which he replied that he was not planning to.

Unbeknownst to Fred, Margaret had returned to the common room at around midnight with her school books. She was unable to sleep, afraid to even close her eyes in fear that she would see his dead body again.

A shiver convulsed through her at the thought and she wrapped her jacket around herself tightly.

To cap it all off, she knew she needed to be there when Harry woke up from his own vision.

Mr Weasley was going to be fatally injured tonight... She wondered what Fred and George and Ron and Ginny would say when they saw her, knowing that she knew this would happen and that she had done nothing to stop it. She shivered again and realised at the same time that she had written the same sentence twice.

Returning the quill to its inkwell, she pushed the notebook away and put her head in her hands.

Margaret was not unfamiliar with the feeling of guilt but it seemed that it was going to consume her tonight.

Even though she knew Mr Weasley would be okay and that she could not change this because it would show Dumbledore just how connected Harry was to Voldemort, her mind could not seem to ease.

Or perhaps, it was not her mind. Perhaps it was her heart that felt guilty. Mr and Mrs Weasley had taken her in, no questions asked, just because Dumbledore put his trust in her. Margaret could only wish everyone to be so kind.

As if on cue, a muffled commotion picked up. She kept her head in her hands but listened carefully. A few minutes later, all fell silent. A set of footsteps rushed down the stairs and the door to the boys' dormitories burst open. Neville slowed in his strides, his eyes catching Margaret's as she looked up.

"Go," she tells him at once. "Go get McGonagall."

He nodded without question and hurried out of the portrait hole.