Fredrick dear
She was having a nightmare about mosquitoes eating her alive.

Agatha hadn't gone to bed in such a sour mood since...since Edgar Bones had dumped her that day after Herbology. Not only did she hate the bloody subject, but he'd nonchalantly said that it wasn't going to work, blah blah blah, and that was that. Agatha was sure she'd trampled over a few first years in her furious rampage to the dorms, and instead of crying herself to sleep, she transfigured a few firecrackers into cigarettes and hid them in Edgar's pocket the next day.

Hey, everyone's heard the quote about women scorned. You can't say he didn't have a warning.

But now, instead of plotting her revenge on Fredrick, Agatha had painfully dealt with all of his owls, locked up her journal in a trunk and silenced it so she wouldn't hear it shaking with his new comments, and promptly went to bed to forget it all. She was terrified by the fact that she hadn't had the urge to hurt or embarrass him in some fashion, but a small voice in the back of her ranting and raving mind told her that it was because she loved him. You don't send rampaging quaffles and exploding cigarettes to someone you love.

A giant mosquito hurled itself through the air and Agatha let out a yelp as she awoke; not only because of the nightmare, but because of the rapid pace banging on her door. Her still sleepy eyes read her clock as 5:34 in the morning, and she let out a rumble from the back of her throat as she started toward the door. If it wasn't Fredrick, she was going to kill whoever was outside the door.

Maybe even if it was Fredrick.