"George says," Fred rolls Ron's sleeve up to hug the thin bones of his shoulder, folding two fingers around his wrist, "there's this spot, and we all have it. Three little freckles."

"We have them all over," Ron says, and Fred slides the fingers across, hot on Ron's inner arm, calling up his veins.

"Right here, like a triangle."

And there they were.

"Like a secret code," Fred murmurs, face turned down to watch their skin blend together, eyelashes curved towards his cheeks in a blur of orangeish-red.

Ron scoffs, and Fred breathes in, kisses him.

"It says we're different."