Scarlet Woman

I had left The Burrow just four hours ago and was now returning, clad from head to toe in black. In my pocket rustled the piece of parchment Mrs. Weasley had somehow managed to slip to me. With each step a new question ran through my head with the rhythmic squeak of my battered trainers.

"What exactly do you want from me, Mrs Weasley?"

Rustle, skip, squeak!

"Don't you think this is awfully wrong?"

Squeak!

"This can't really be what you want, can it?"

Squeak-skip, squeak!

Let's just hope that for once I was articulate enough to say what I wanted without turning into a gibbering wreck.

Soon The Burrow came into view, its shambolic turrets rising above the severely overgrown hedge. I sidled up to the door, repeating my confidence mantra "I, Neville Longbottom, am a man of purpose.". On the doorstep were two pairs of wellies, one small and red with a sheepskin lining and one large, green and very muddy. With a trembling hand I knocked on the lion's head door-knocker, waiting for her to appear.

"I, Neville Longbottom, am a man of purpose. I, Neville Longbottom, am a man of purpose, I, Neville Longbottom, are a man of-"

The door swung open. Mrs. Weasley stood in the doorway, a coy smile curling her scarlet lips. If I had looked beyond it, I'd have seen the eyes which didn't match that smile.

"You came after all. Well, come in, don't want you turning into an icicle, now do we?" A false laugh escaped her, and she struggled to restrain it. I was reminded of Ginny's curious cackle.

Ducking my head so as not to bash it on the low wooden door frame, I followed her inside. In the glowing light emanating from junky antique art-deco lamps, I saw her to be wearing a long, raspberry coloured satin slip. The outline of her voluptuous body was crystal clear through it, so clear that I had to avert my young, innocent eyes before talking.

"What..... er...".

She looked at me from under brown, spiky lashes. Her kind eyes were lined delicately at the edges, revealing her age.

"What exactly do you..".

She now leaned in closer, her curled red hair almost touching my face. The cinnamon scent tickled my nose and awakened unwanted senses in me. Please, Mrs. Weasley, leave me alone. It's wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong-etty wrong.

"What exactly do you want from me?" I squawked, sounding like I was trapped in a large helium balloon. The question, of course, was not a smart move. She took my hand in hers and leant in even closer, so that her hair fell on to my neck. She whispered something incoherent, and undoubtedly indecent and started to lead me up the stairs to that dark cavern of brown paisley and cracked windows.

I will still say no, of course. There is no way I, Neville Longbottom, will be ending up in that bed tonight.

She sat me down on the bed, grabbing the front of my jumper and pulling me into a deep kiss. I tore her hand away worriedly. Gran would not be happy if she ripped it, it was a nice new one from Marks and Spencer's after all. I tried to move, but there was something suffocating and restricting about her kisses that forbade me to resist, however much my mind screamed it.

"Mrs. Weasley!" I gasped as she pulled away. "Stop this! For both our sakes!"

Caught up in my own passion, I stood up, pointing at her with a shaky finger.

"Stop this, or I'll have you charged- and don't think I won't, Mrs. Weasley- I'll have you charged for rape!"

The words hung heavily in the air, like a treacle filled lead balloon. Mrs. Weasley's eyes narrowed in her doll-like face, mouth scrunched tight together.

"You little bastard.." Her voice was no more than a venomous whisper, a sharp blade to my soul . Her eyes burned with rage, turning to black holes in her face as she stood to face me. I trembled, resisting all urges to back away... I, Neville Longbottom, was a man of... purpose?

"It took the two of us," Mrs. Weasley hissed. She raised her hand as if to slap my face, and I noticed that she too was shaking. "You could have said no."

I was about to tell her that I had said no, and rather clearly too when I raised my eyes to her hand shivering and jumping just inches from my face. Her nails were painted in bright cherry red, a shocking clash with her pale skin. Her other hand balled into a trembling fist, the knuckles white as her nails digged into the palm.

"I.. er.. you.. we... yesss." Goodbye, vocublary. I stumbled on my words, shuffling my feet on the Persian rug. I dug my toe into a red-wine stain in the shape of a heart.

Her hand did not move, and neither did her heated glare. I was at completely at a loss. I didn't have much, but when confronted what little courage I had ran away with its tail between its legs.

"Fine. Go to the police if you want. But who do you think they'll believe, you or me? You won't even be able to speak to them. And it all looks a bit suspicious, doesn't it, a happily married family woman on the one hand. What's on the other, Neville? A boy they've been expecting to turn bad for years. They're just waiting for you to turn out like your mum and dad."

A slow, liquid silence befell us. Her pupils dilated with the horror of what she had just said, but I sensed that she would not be the type to apologise. It was all true, anyway. Sometimes I wondered just when I would start running amok with a kitchen knife, screaming the Dark Lord's name.

I stared at the green and cream striped wallpaper until the stripes blurred and merged into one grey block. I did not notice that she had moved her hand or that the fire had died in her eyes. The back of her hand brushed my cheek in a motherly gesture, the way I wanted to be loved and touched.

"Mrs. Weasley, I'm sorry." Was I? Why did I say that, when it was her who ought to be apologising? It wasn't like me to be gentlemanly, and I knew really that the gesture was one of cowardice. She had won again, and that she knew.

Ron had tried to teach me wizard chess throughout our seven years at school together. I would sit there, staring vacantly across the board as he, with his blazing hair and narrowed eyes won every game. I was subjected to grim defeat, the screaming of the pawns in my ears as they fell one by one to Weasley.

"Never be sorry." Mrs. Weasley told me, and brought the hand that had so nearly assaulted me softly to my shoulder.

I did not go home that night.