(i feel fire/under my skin) â frank/alice
Only the other day Frank had been joking about feeling eighteen again, but as he gathered his scarf to bolster himself against the bitter mid-winter gust on his way to meet Alice, he suddenly realized how much sense it made. Even the thought of seeing Alice again made his hands feel empty; as if he'd had too many cups of coffee. His stomach twisted when he remembered her bright, intelligent eyes, and the gentle slope of her sweet, lazy smile. He felt alight.Â
Which was all ridiculous, really, considering she'd been his best friend for about as long as he could remember. They'd spent countless hours side by side in the greenhouses, nattering about this, that, and the other, happy as two ducks on a pond. As Frank fastened his jacket and peered out the window to the steel-grey sky beyond, he forced himself to think of other, less silly things; things that didn't make him act like a bloody thirteen year old with a crush.
But what made it even worse was to recall how many times he'd had this exact conversation with himself; and how many times he'd then realized, with a jolt, a bolt, a thrum of electricity, that he was absolutely in love with Alice Fortescue.
Frowning to himself, Frank rested a hand against the doorframe for a moment, staring very hard at the whorls in the wood. This is some predictament we've got ourselves into, old chap, he thought idly. Some predicament indeed.
Sighing lightly, he straightened to full height, adjusting his clothes as he did so. Instantly, there was a crack by his right elbow, and his mother's house elf - Pebble - appeared.
"Will Master Longbottom be leaving now?" the creature wheezed, peering up at him through translucent hazel eyes. Frank cast the elf a fond smile.
"Master will indeed," he confirmed, tightening his scarf. "And Master might not be back for tea tonight, if you'd kindly tell moth- mistress."
Pebble bowed so low his drooping ears brushed the floorboards. "Right away, sir." And with that, he disappeared.
The journey into London took a reasonable amount of time. Although Frank had apparated as close as he dared to the muggle centre, the bookshop was - if he remembered correctly; how long had it been since he was there last? Since before the war? The thought chilled him - a fair way away. As he moved with the crowd, the freezing wind howling down the street, bouncing off buildings and tearing the last desperate leaves from the trees, he allowed his mind to drift. It was funny how easily the idea to dine at the Burrow had come to him; how quickly the old place had become a second home. Not once, twice, or three times had he woken on the sofa in the back room; in fact, it had turned into such a habit he'd taken to keeping a set of spare pyjamas, a bit of soap, and a muggle razor in a small tin camping cup in a cupboard for those now wholly uneventful mornings. His stomach twisted again. And yes, he'd been waking to Alice as well.
She was so beautiful in the morning. Beautiful always, of course. But when the pink-gold sunlight came streaming through the clean windows of the kitchen to catch the slender planes of her face, tangling around her soft cardigans and comfy jeans and the delicate curls of hair by her temple... Frank's breath would catch in his chest so hard he felt quite faint and silly and entirely, entirely at a loss to what to do.
Quite a predicament, he mused again.
Turning off the main strip, Frank started down the side street that housed Alice's bookshop. The wind was less frightful here, bracketed as he was by the older, more melancholy buildings; this was the outskirts of the less modern side of town, a slightly ragged fringe to the shinier, more expensive cousins. But somehow, the bookshop shone like a beacon from its place on the opposite corner, the warm glow from the windows promising a good cup of tea, a story or two, and some conversation while you were at it. And really, that was all he ever needed; Frank was a simple soul.
The overhead bell jingled as he pushed open the door, a great inhalation of icy wind fluttering the pages of a dozen books. As he closed the door behind him, the wash of heat was instantaneous. Coughing a bit and rubbing his hands, Frank gazed around the shop, taking in the mountains of of multicoloured hardbacks. Home, he thought suddenly; it was not an unwelcome realization.
