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George would have expected that by his sixth year at school he would have gotten used to hearing Harry Potter’s name.
He’d heard it more than enough for any sane person in the space of a lifetime; Harry’s name was splashed all over the papers at regular intervals, press both positive and negative, yet inescapable all the same. His name was constantly on the lips of witches and wizards everywhere, particularly since he’d made his rather underwhelming re-entrance into wizarding society.
It was discomfiting walking down Diagon Alley with Harry when they made their trips to get school supplies, groups of wixen whispering behind raised hands, eyes following them as they walked, stares locked on Harry’s forehead.
George wasn’t sure if Harry truly knew the depths of how much the general wizarding populace was desperate for gossip about him. They hungered for tales of his bravery and heroism yet absolutely chomped at the bit for him to be taken down a peg.
Reporters from a litany of magazines had descended on Hogwarts since the start of the Triwizard Tournament, popping up here and there, slinking around corridors, stalking up and down the Great Hall during mealtimes. Apparently, the increased amount of press was good for the school. Whose bright idea that was, George didn’t know, but he supposed they probably needed a feel-good story after the whole Chamber of Secrets debacle a few years back. A teenager getting thrown into an arena with a dragon going off its nut was definitely considered a feel-good story by the majority of the wizarding populace.
Reporting on the Task had led to a rapid spike in broom sales, according to Rita Skeeter. She’d even managed to work in something about Harry’s preferred hair potions, no doubt getting a not so insignificant kickback in return. The style he’d been quoted as using – Wandering Wild Wizards – had been flying off the shelves in Diagon. According to a very baffled Harry the morning the article was published, he’d never used a hair potion in his life.
George’s mum always said that the whole celebrity thing was a bit much for a fourteen year old to bear, and George was inclined to agree with her. Having a group of elderly women discuss your dad’s death and your godfather’s rumoured insanity before quickly pivoting to the validity of your marriage prospects was a mental thing to picture. George couldn’t imagine being recognised on sight by people in the street that you’d never met; he hoped to get there one day, when he and Fred were at the top of the joke shop empire, but they would have asked for it at least. Harry certainly hadn’t. People seemed to forget that he was just a normal bloke, not some mythical figure. It was downright odd.
He couldn’t escape Harry’s name even at his own dinner table, tucked away in the countryside of Devon. Every single one of Ron’s stories included the bloke, each more unbelievable than the last. George would think he was having them all on if he didn’t know Harry himself. Ginny absolutely delighted at the dramatic retellings of Harry’s near-death experiences, how he always seemed to do the right thing and still come out on top. Ron, for his part, was seemingly completely oblivious to Ginny’s ridiculous crush and was more than happy to feed her excruciatingly boring details of their adventures while she sighed and batted her eyelashes at the ceiling.
It wouldn’t be so bad, the whole ‘unable to avoid Harry’ thing, if George was able to get even a second of peace inside his own brain. It really, really wasn’t helped by the fact that he was carrying a torch for Harry that shone bright enough to be seen clear across the English Channel. Internally seen, anyway. He was doing a bang-up job of keeping the whole thing under wraps.
Harry’s name, typically a regular part of the everchanging rotation of school gossip, was being mentioned even more consistently now that the Tournament was underway. Particularly so with the Yule Ball a mere few weeks away and Harry being, somehow, still dateless.
People couldn’t stop bloody talking about it; it was the juiciest piece of gossip his classmates had heard all year. It was the most egregious thing to happen since Sirius Black broke into the Gryffindor dorms and viciously attacked Ron with a flaming sword (completely untrue, but George did so love to stoke the gossip about it. He’d managed to convince the Second Years that Ron had a burn scar clear across his chest from the incident).
“He’s already turned down a whole handful of girls,” Tracey Davis said. “I heard that he’s waiting for one of the Seventh Year Beauxbatons girls to break up with her boyfriend before he asks her.”
“I heard that he’s got a girlfriend at a different school so he’s not going to take anyone from here.”
“He’s going with Fleur Delacour, everyone knows it,” Megan Jones giggled.
“He’s not, Fleur would have told me. We’re doing a Charms project together, did you know? For extra marks.”
“I heard he’s waiting for someone to prove their bravery to him before he asks. Do you think you could pretend to fall down the stairs in front of him and I’ll catch you? That might do it.”
“He’s taking Penelope Clearwater. I heard it from Leanne.”
“No, she turned him down. She’s going with one of the Durmstrang boys.”
“No, he’s taking Katie Bell. I saw them kissing by the locker rooms after the final Quidditch match last year. Shut up, I did.”
“I heard Dean Thomas telling him that Parvati and Padma Patil are the fittest girls in their year. I bet he’s going with one of them.”
“He and Cedric are both taking Cho Chang. Whoever wins the most points in the next Task gets to date her afterwards.”
“Lucky bitch.”
“You’re all wrong, he’s going with Hermione Granger. Haven’t they been together since second year or something?”
“No, she’s going with Marcus Flint, isn’t she? That’s what Millicent Bulstrode’s been telling everyone.”
George rubbed his temples with his thumbs and tried to tune out the giggling coming from the next table over. Fred looked up and shot him a wink, then an eye roll.
“Girls,” Fred muttered, shaking his head.
Kenneth nodded along, though it was clear that he was only half paying attention.
“Hello,” a particularly squeaky voice said. The owner of said voice gave George a very insistent tap on the shoulder.
He turned around to see two girls in Hufflepuff uniforms who looked vaguely familiar. He’d definitely seen them around the place, but they weren’t in his year, nor did they look to be in Ron’s or even Ginny’s.
“You’re Ron Weasley’s brothers, yeah?” The girl had a bit of chewing gum in her mouth, snapping it as she talked.
“Yeah,” George said. He cringed a little inside; surely he and Fred had made enough of a reputation for themselves that they didn’t need to be known through their association with Ron of all people. What a travesty.
The girl visibly brightened. “Oh, good!” She leaned in closer, as though she were about to share with George a salacious piece of gossip. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. “Do you know who Harry Potter is going to the Yule Ball with?”
Fred let out a bark of laughter, receiving a smack on the arm from Kenneth in return.
“Shut up, I don’t want Pince throwing us out,” Kenneth hissed. “I’ve still got half a foot left to go of this Arithmancy crap.”
“You’re Ron Weasley’s brother. Are you certain you don’t know?”
“We won’t tell anyone.” The girl’s equally young looking friend piped up. “We’ll swear a Vow.”
“What?” The original asker yelped, looking decently horrified.
“We’ll swear one, you just have to tell us first.”
“No, he doesn’t bloody know,” Kenneth muttered. “Merlin alive, does no one but me have classes to study for?”
“He’s right, I don’t,” George said, smiling apologetically at the girls, who looked visibly disappointed. He waited until they walked away to pull a face at Fred.
“Harry should just put out a bloody press release, honestly,” Fred said cheerily. He put on a mimicry of the girls’ high, tittering voices. “Are you Ron Weasley’s brother? What a bloody miserable time to be alive.”
“You could say that again,” George muttered. He twirled his quill between his fingers and frowned down at the piece of parchment in front of him.
“Cheer up, Georgie. I’ll slip him one of the Canaries at breakfast tomorrow as payback.”
George nodded, flipping to a different page in his Transfiguration textbook just for something to do. It bothered him more than it probably should, all the discussion around Harry and his mystery date for the Ball. Rumours were flying left, right, and centre about who it could be, what they looked like, who asked who, and whether or not they were dating in secret. Harry had already turned down a not insignificant number of girls, that much George had heard. His rejection of Tia Browncotte, an unfairly attractive Ravenclaw Fifth Year with legs for days, had been the talk of the Gryffindor common room for weeks. Nobody seemed to be able to figure out what was going on with Harry, least of all George.
He had to be going with someone, must have somehow arranged it all so secretly that there hadn’t been a single leak about it. The alternative was unthinkable; Harry wouldn’t turn down at minimum five confirmed and very decent offers without first having properly secured a date. Yet something told George that that was indeed the case.
Despite his very public feats of bravery, Harry could be awfully shy at the best of times. It was one of the things that George liked most about him, that duality. He liked that Harry could go from flying within touching distance of an angry dragon to blushing and stumbling over his words when he spoke in front of a crowd of reporters not three minutes later. It was more than a little endearing.
Fred thought so too, though he didn’t say it often and he certainly wasn’t endeared in the same way that George was. George had enough issues without having to worry about competing for Harry’s attention with his twin brother.
*
As promised, Fred did indeed slip Ron one of the Canary Creams at breakfast the next morning. He forced the little white disc inside one of the scones that were piled high in the centre of the table, looking tantalisingly light and fluffy. The tainted scone was then placed on an empty plate a few seats down from where the two of them sat, specially reserved for their brother. George arranged some bacon and eggs next to the scone to dissuade Ron’s suspicions, though he doubted Ron would look a gift pastry in the mouth.
“Oi, over here,” Fred called, waving an arm in the air.
George looked up to see Harry and Ron making their way over, Hermione trailing a few steps behind them, a book in front of her face. How she could see where she was walking, George didn’t know.
“Alright?” Ron asked, sliding into the seat next to George. “Who’s this for then?”
“You,” George said. He grabbed a piece of toast from the stack in the middle of the table, acting as nonchalant as possible. “Heard a rumour that you might be late down. Turns out we were wrong.”
Ron gave them both a suspicious look but evidently chose to ignore his instincts, tucking into the distraction bacon with gusto.
“You’re the talk of the whole bloody school, Harry,” Fred said. “Can you put us all out of our misery and say who you’re going to the Ball with? Really, it’s insulting to be asked about it by Second Years of all people. The sheer nerve of it all.”
“Oh,” Harry said, brushing a bit of hair out of his eyes. He smiled at George when he held out the plate of toast for Harry to pick from. “Uh, nobody yet. I haven’t organised anything.”
“That’s mental,” Fred said. “Bloody mental. Though Casanova over there isn’t much better off, we hear.”
“Shut up,” Ron said through a mouthful of eggs. “Girls are bloody terrifying, alright.”
George was inclined to agree with that statement as he watched three Slytherin girls descend on Hermione like sharks to a struggling seal, terrifying grins on their faces as they whispered, gesturing wildly towards Harry’s back. Hermione looked mightily annoyed as she lowered her book to listen to them, eyebrows raised and lips pursed.
“You’d better hurry up, mate, or all the good ones will have gone.” Fred leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, clearly thinking that he’d now exceeded his allowance of brotherly wisdom for the day.
“Easy for you to say,” Ron muttered, frowning down at his plate. “You two are, well, cool.” He screwed his face up and stuck his tongue out. “Gross, forget I said that.”
George tried to ignore the twisting feeling in his gut at the thought of Harry going to the Ball with some gorgeous girl in a long shimmering dress. They’d dance together and smile at each other all night long, cameras flashing around them, while George watched from the sidelines. It was a mildly pathetic image. Swooning over the Golden Boy was the most clichéd thing that he could possibly do, after all; who at Hogwarts didn’t want Harry. That would be a decidedly short list.
It was selfish of George to not want Harry to go with anyone, he knew that. Harry couldn’t go stag, it wasn’t an option; he had to open the Ball with the other Champions, get their photos in the paper, promote school unity, all that shite that George tended to roll his eyes at. It was selfish to want that, but he could still hope, deep down, that Harry wouldn’t go with anyone because he didn’t like anyone. A pipe dream, that’s all it was.
“Who are you going with then?” Harry asked suddenly. He looked between Fred and George, a thoughtful expression on his face.
George groaned at the question. Fred loved nothing more than to be asked about his date since he’d grown a pair of bollocks for the first time in his life and had bucked up and asked someone. Though George supposed he couldn’t really hold it against Fred, given how much he was punching upwards.
Fred leaned an elbow on the table and waggled his eyebrows at Harry. “Angelina. Asked her last week.” He jerked his thumb in George’s direction. “This one hasn’t asked anyone yet, the lazy git. Reckon I’ll need to bully him into it.”
George flicked a bit of egg at Fred, laughing when it landed right in the centre of his forehead. Harry was looking at him when he turned back to his plate, an interested expression on his face. He opened his mouth, clearly about to say something, but was cut off when Hermione all but threw her book down in front of him, nearly upending his plate.
“Honestly,” she muttered, sliding onto the bench seat. “Some of these girls are just wildly out of order.”
“Too right,” George muttered, thinking about the ‘Ron Weasley’s brother’ comment.
“Um,” Ron said then. “Does anyone else feel a little bit off?”
“No idea what you mean,” Fred replied, adding an extra bit of butter to his toast.
There was a loud bang as feathers sprouted up Ron’s arms, turning his skin a delightful mix of neon pink and deep purple.
“Oh dear,” Hermione said. “Are you alright, Ron?”
Ron could only squeak in response.
“You’ve never looked better, mate,” George said, tossing another scone onto Ron’s plate. “Reckon you might need to go to the infirmary after this though. You’ll scare the First Years.”
“Maybe ask one of the girls to the Ball on your way up there, eh?” Fred suggested. “You’re better looking than normal, might as well take advantage of it.”
Ron’s next squeak sounded quite a bit angrier than the first.
*
The Canary Creams worked a right treat; after Ron turned back into himself exactly 43 minutes after eating the tainted scone, Fred and George declared their newest invention a success. The very public testing of the product had only worked in their favour, with requests for the prototype pouring in for days afterward. The Howler they’d gotten from their mum hadn’t dampened their spirits at all. Really, Ron should be honoured to be considered important enough to test their products on. Ungrateful sod.
Ron had taken to looking warily at the food at mealtimes and insisting that Harry and Hermione pick everything for him, lest he accidentally grab the wrong potato and explode into a cloud of feathers again. The three of them were sitting just close enough to George for him to hear their conversation over the raucous laughter of his mates as they discussed Lee’s jokes for next year’s Quidditch tournament.
“Honestly, Ron, the feathers didn’t look that bad,” Hermione said. She swatted at Ron, who was hovering far too close to her side. His rather beady looking eyes watched as she picked up different bits of roast pumpkin for him to inspect.
“I thought they were quite cool,” Harry said, patting at Ron’s arm.
“So did Rowena White,” Hermione snorted.
Ron’s expression turned disturbed. “Isn’t she that First Year you’re tutoring?”
Hermione smirked, her expression gleeful. “Might have to take what you can get.”
Harry nodded solemnly.
Ron frowned and shoved a bit of roast pumpkin into his mouth, chewing ravenously. “Right, that’s it. I’m sorting this out tonight.”
“Sorting what out?” Harry snagged a potato from Ron’s plate right under his nose. He locked eyes with George as he did it, grinning widely.
“This whole naff Yule Ball deal.” Ron sat up a little straighter. “I’m sorting it. I’ll do it for the both of us.”
“Er,” Harry said, eyes widening as he turned to look at Ron. “No offence, but no thanks.”
“It’s alright, I believe in you, Ron,” Hermione said, her voice dripping with false sweetness.
*
Ron’s idea of ‘sorting it’ was apparently to lob all remaining scraps of self-preservation out the uppermost window of Ravenclaw Tower and let them fall where they may. George had just about busted a rib laughing when he’d been told the next day that Ron had attempted to ask out Fleur Delacour in the middle of a packed courtyard, a whole crowd of her friends watching on. Word in the corridor was that her and her mates had just stared at him until he sort of tripped over his own feet and shuffled away, muttering to himself like a proper lunatic.
George found Ron that evening off to the side of the common room with his head in Ginny’s lap. She too looked like she’d damn near busted a rib laughing, though the flush on her cheeks could have just been because Harry was close by. George could certainly understand that reaction.
“Hi, George,” Harry said, looking up from the book he was sharing with Hermione. “Bit nippy out there, wouldn’t you say?”
George blinked for a moment. “Uh, yeah, I suppose so.” He hadn’t been paying an ounce of attention to the weather, far more preoccupied with dodging Filch. The man had been like a bloodhound on a mission trying to catch him and Fred selling Canary Creams. George suspected that he was pursuing them so intently because he was getting tired of sweeping up the resulting feathers, rather than actually being concerned about the welfare of the students who ate the stuff.
“Brilliant,” Harry said, looking back down at his book. His cheeks were also looking a little flushed now and he shifted uncomfortably on the fluffy crimson rug.
George sat down on the couch next to Ginny, giving Ron a pat on the head. “Look, mate, I know Fred told you to hurry up, but you’ve got to be realistic about it.”
“Don’t remind me about what happened down there, please,” Ron groaned. “Bloody hell, I’m already on the edge.”
“And you,” George said, giving Harry a nudge with the toe of his trainer. “Why didn’t you stop him? I know you’ve got more common sense than that.”
Harry tipped his head back to rest against the seat of the couch, looking at George from upside-down. “Why me? Why not Hermione?”
George snorted, shaking his head. “If Hermione had been around, it wouldn’t have gotten past the initial idea stage in the first place.” He sent a wink in Hermione’s direction, receiving a smirk in return.
Harry shifted again, his eyebrows drawing inwards slightly. He turned his head and whispered something in Hermione’s ear. George watched as she paused to look at him before rolling her eyes and getting to her feet, tugging their shared book out of Harry’s grasp.
“I suppose I’ll see you later then, George,” she said, sending Harry an exasperated look. “Ginny, Ron, come on, I want to show you two something.”
“Nah, I’m alright here,” Ron said. “Gin’s as bony as anything, but she’s an alright pillow.”
“Fuck off,” Ginny said, shoving Ron’s head off her lap.
He made a shrill squawking sound as he toppled off the couch, landing half on top of Harry.
“Ron,” Harry hissed, pushing at Ron’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t you go follow Hermione?”
“Nah.” Ron rolled off of Harry and shifted back up onto the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Been acting a bit weird all day, hasn’t she?”
“She’s probably waiting for you to ask her to the Ball,” George said. He let out a snort of laughter at Ron’s vaguely horrified expression.
“Yes, Ron, maybe you should go and ask her about it,” Harry said. He was crouching in front of the couch in a rather uncomfortable looking position. “Now might be a good time.”
“You do that, you’re better at dealing with her when she’s in a snit. Fuck, we’re never going to find dates. We’re going to die alone without any girlfriends. Harry, mate, I love you, but I don’t want to be downing your socks in my eighties.”
Harry looked as though he was trying to hex Ron with his eyes, which was quite interesting. George had rarely seen him look that intense. The sight of it was doing twisty things to his insides.
“Actually asking someone out might be a start,” George said.
“I did. Don’t make me relive that nightmare, I beg.”
“You asked Fleur Delacour. That doesn’t count, you were stark raving mad to do it in the first place. Ask someone who might actually say yes, yeah?” He turned to face Harry, who was watching him intently. “Who are you going to ask? You should get them to loop in someone for Ron as well, bit of a consolation prize.”
Ron groaned, receiving a swat on the leg from both George and Harry in response.
“Well,” Harry said. “I did actually have someone I was going to ask. I was wondering if –”
Ron interrupted him by lobbing a cushion at his head. “Of course whoever you ask will say yes. The more important person right now is me, the bloke that just got turned down by the fittest girl either of us will ever meet. I’m in dire straits, Harry.”
“Just ask Hermione, for Godric’s sake,” George muttered. The smile had been wiped off Harry’s face, replaced with an expression that looked vaguely nervous. He was worrying his lip between his teeth, his eyes not quite resting in any one spot. “She’ll go with you, I’m sure.”
“She’s already going with someone else,” Ron replied, his expression stony.
“Surely you’ve asked her then?” George directed at Harry, who shook his head.
There went George’s acceptable backup plan to Harry going to the Ball without a date. He was surprised that Harry hadn’t asked Hermione; he was far more likely than Ron to do it. Hermione was a great option for Harry to take, from George’s perspective. It wouldn’t be so bad seeing the two of them twirling in circles together on the dancefloor, laughing and having the time of their lives. It was obvious to anyone with half a brain that the two of them were just mates. It would be manageable and wouldn’t make George want to curl up into a ball and hide in the corner of the room for the entire night.
He knew that there would inevitably be a picture of Harry and his date pinned to one of the kitchen cupboards back at home, no matter who he took. His mum had already advance ordered seven copies of the edition of The Prophet that would have the pictures from the Ball in it, ready to be cut into pieces and stuck about the house. Seeing Hermione’s face smiling at him whenever he went to get a glass of pumpkin juice would be far preferrable to the image of some simpering girl clinging to Harry’s arm.
He wondered who had asked Hermione in the end. Nearly as much as Harry, he’d expected Fred to give it a crack. George saw the looks that he shot her during the weeks she’d stayed at the Burrow during the summer. His eyes would get all glazed over when he and George wandered down for breakfast and walked past Hermione curled up in one of the armchairs by the window, a book open in her lap. George wondered if that was what he looked like when he watched Harry. Merlin’s saggy balls, he hoped not. If he did, he was a complete lost cause already.
Given that not a single one of his siblings had asked the person who they actually wanted to take to the Ball, George had to concede that not one person in their family had gonads. If Bill was still at school, there was no doubt that he would have asked someone he properly liked; Charlie too.
George remembered how cool Charlie had looked when he and Fred had been in their first year, sauntering about the castle with a gaggle of girls and boys on his heels. He’d paid Fred and George in lollies to carry letters back and forth between him and his flame of the week. George knew with one hundred percent certainty that the gonads in the family resided with Charlie, there was no question about it.
He, Fred, and Ron – all Gryffindors and no nerve between them.
If Ginny had been a bloke she would have asked someone; she had more balls than the three of them combined. Godric, who cared that she wasn’t a bloke, she probably had just gone and asked someone, despite Third Years not technically being allowed to go to the Ball.
“Oi, Georgie,” Fred called from the other side of the room. “Come over here, we’ve got business to attend to.” He was reclining in one of the armchairs, seemingly holding court for Angelina and one of her friends, Catey Flannigan, who George had only ever spoken to in passing. Catey waggled her fingers in the air in a half wave, sending a saccharine smile George’s way.
“Merlin knows what they want,” George muttered. He heaved himself to his feet, pushing Ron’s legs out of the way. “Good luck with the date search, gents.”
“You’re the worst fucking friend, you know that?” Harry hissed once George was halfway across the room, but not quite out of earshot.
“Me?” Ron cried, indignation clear in his voice. “What did I do? Aside from suffer.”
George sat down heavily on top of Fred in the armchair, grinning at the girls as his brother tried to push him off. “Alright, ladies?”
They giggled, sending each other what he suspected was intended to be a flirty look. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry whack Ron over the head with a cushion, sending his brother careening to the floor.
*
“You’re barking if you think the Wanderers are beating the Falcons. They were bottom of the leader board last season.”
George threw his hands in the air, tugging the parchment away from Ginny. They were walking a few steps behind Fred across one of the courtyards, snow piling up in thick banks alongside the path.
“The Wanderers have got that new Keeper, Demelza. She’s going to win it for them, I’m telling you,” Ginny insisted, grabbing for the parchment.
George had drawn up the list of matches in each round that had been planned so far, in order to run the yearly Hogwarts Quidditch Betting Pool. It was open to Sixth and Seventh Years only that year, after a disastrous decision the year prior of letting some blokes in Ginny’s year place a few bets. They’d run crying to McGonagall when they’d lost double their monthly pocket money in one go, and Fred and George had been accused of coercing children into a predatory gambling ring. So senior years only, it had been decided.
That didn’t stop George from using his secret weapon, also known as Ginny.
She had an uncanny ability to predict the results of matches and was rarely taken by surprise at whatever outcome came about. George highly suspected that she was cheating somehow, but he could never prove it. She predicted the results of games a good month or so out, there was no way she was using a Time Turner or anything of the sort.
“I don’t give a shit if they’ve got Viktor Krum himself on their team, their offensive is one of the weakest in the league,” George continued. “Not to mention their Seeker’s only caught – what – four Snitches in the last two seasons?”
Ginny rolled her eyes dramatically, fixing George with a look that reminded him far too much of their mum. “Don’t ask for my opinion if you don’t want it, you tosser.”
“Fine. The Wanderers it is.” George circled them on the bracket with a wince. “Now, what about Puddlemere vs the Arrows? Much better set of options, that one.” He let out an oof as he walked into the back of Fred, who had stopped dead in the middle of the path.
“Hi, Harry,” Fred said, his tone unnecessarily bright. “What brings you to the courtyard on this delightful afternoon?”
“Hi,” Harry said. He leaned around Fred to glance at George and Ginny, before looking back down at his feet. “I, uh … bloody hell, Ron’s not still behind me, is he?”
“Nope,” Fred replied. “Why do you ask?”
“He’s been following me around moping. I had to distract him and run away so I could, uh, come here.”
“Awful lot of effort to go to for little old us,” Fred said, voice still appallingly chipper.
George elbowed Ginny, drawing her attention back to the parchment. As much as he enjoyed seeing Harry, getting the right bet was of great importance if he wanted to beat Fred and Angelina to the top of the leader board. “Puddlemere vs the Arrows, Gin, come on.”
Ginny elbowed him back with force, the bony point of it digging into his hip. “The Arrows and shut up a second, would you?”
Harry cleared his throat. There was a shuffling sound, like he was moving his feet back and forth on the spot. He did that sometimes when he was nervous, George had noticed. He’d looked like that for a full day before he’d plucked up the courage to tell George’s mum that he’d crashed into her prized patch of Peruvian Geraniums and flattened the whole lot of them. He’d gotten off with a pat on the shoulder; if it had been Fred and George, they’d have been bloody well skinned alive.
“I, uh, I had something I wanted to ask,” Harry said.
Fred nodded encouragingly. “Go on then, mate.”
“Uh, well, I was just wondering if you might possibly want to go to the Ball with me?” He said it rather quickly, so obviously extremely nervous about the whole thing. It would be rather sweet if it didn’t make George want to curl up and die.
George’s stomach twisted, a faint hint of nausea washing through him. He swallowed, his chest heavy all of a sudden; the feeling wasn’t too dissimilar from the times when Ron came and sat on him at home, groaning about how he’d eaten too much roast chicken for lunch and that he’d need to be carried upstairs to sleep it off.
The thought of Ron called up the thought of Ginny and George immediately plastered a smile onto his face. Ginny would be thrilled after all – one of her biggest childhood dreams was apparently coming true. It was coming true right in front of George’s very eyes. He ought to be happy for her. He was happy for her. It didn’t make him a bad brother to not be as happy for her as Fred might have been, not at all.
He turned his smile on Ginny, expecting to see her beaming up at Harry and jumping up and down with excitement. Instead, her expression was blank. She set her jaw and looked back down at the parchment that she was sharing with George, her fingers clenching tighter on the corner.
Fred dramatically cleared his throat, drawing George’s attention away from Ginny. He couldn’t stop his gaze from sliding past Fred to meet Harry’s. Harry’s very intent, very focused gaze.
By the grace of Merlin himself, Harry was looking at him. Not at Ginny, at him.
“Uh,” George said, still staring at Harry.
Harry shuffled his feet again, his cheeks growing somehow even redder than they were before. Despite his obvious embarrassment, he didn’t break eye contact.
George blinked, not entirely sure that he’d heard what he thought he’d heard. There was no way. “Sorry, come again?”
Fred turned away from Harry to fix George with a look so exasperated that he nearly broke into a fit of full-bodied laughter on the spot. “Georgie,” Fred said. “Mate.”
The thing was, George had never told Fred that he was carrying a bit of a torch for Harry, but when had he ever needed to tell his brother anything? He’d always just known, just as George had always known things about Fred. It was just as likely to be some kind of mystical twin connection as it was the result of living in each other’s pockets from birth and likely until death.
When they were little, they used to talk about marrying a set of twins and living in houses that shared a garden or maybe a wall or a kitchen and their mum could come by and cook for everyone, and they’d throw wild parties every single day. When they got older, their bond became more akin to a telepathic link of anti-getting-into-troubleness, which had served them pretty bloody well thus far.
So, really, why wouldn’t Fred know that George was off his bloody rocker for Harry? Of course he did.
Harry was still standing there with his hands in his pockets and his feet turned slightly inwards just looking at George. George considered suddenly that he might actually be frozen on the spot out of fear, just as Ron had been when he’d left his brain down in the Hufflepuff dorms and asked out Fleur Delacour.
The whole thing was quite overwhelming, to be completely honest. George hadn’t set out to be asked to the Ball that day. He’d not combed his hair that morning and he was wearing a jumper with at least four different holes in the sleeve. It wasn’t the most romantic thing but, then again, maybe it was? Spontaneity could be romantic and Merlin’s wrinkled bollocks, Harry was still watching him as he had his little crisis right there on the path with his brother and sister fully in earshot. He’d never hear the bloody end of it, of that he was sure.
“Just to be clear,” George said, finding both his voice and at least half of his brain at the same time, “you’re asking me?”
Harry nodded. He looked a little more pleased than he had a few moments prior, and a whole lot less like he might cry.
“Why?” George asked, his mouth hanging open.
“Well,” Harry said, kicking at a bit of snow on the path. “You guys said all the good ones would be gone soon and it’s all a bit crap, to be honest. The whole asking thing. Besides,” he looked up again, smiling softly at George in a way that made his chest squeeze even tighter, though it was a nice squeeze this time. “It would be fun, I reckon, if we went together. It could be a laugh. I could use a few of those at the moment.” His next smile was a little unsure, yet still so soft. George could scarcely believe that Harry was looking at him like that.
The paper in his hand creased slightly, bending against his knuckles. Ginny’s fingers had tightened enough that it was likely to rip if George didn’t loosen his own hold.
Ginny’s face was turning a startling shade of red, though she hadn’t lifted her eyes from the parchment. George wondered if she’d sock him in the side of the head next time they were in a corridor out of view of any of the professors. He wouldn’t stop her if she tried to. Hell, he might even slip her a few Canary Creams to use against him when she felt like it. He wouldn’t much like it if she decked Harry though; he looked as though he was having a difficult enough time of it as it was.
Harry cleared his throat. “So…?” He lifted an eyebrow at George. It was probably supposed to look suave and casual, but Harry’s body language still clearly betrayed his anxiety. It was one of the most endearing things about him, his untameable awkwardness.
George felt a grin spread across his face then, completely uncontrollable. He probably looked absolutely mental, but he didn’t care one bit. The squeezing in his chest had spread to his head, almost like a headrush after he’d stood up too fast. It made him feel more than a little giddy, like he was swaying on his feet and might pitch himself into the snowbank if he wasn’t careful.
“Why not,” he said, nodding at Harry. “It’ll be a laugh. Might even get my face in the paper.”
Harry’s strained smile broke into a wide grin then, that crooked one that he did that made his cheeks and nose scrunch up so much that his glasses got pushed slightly askew. There was an obvious look of relief on his face that didn’t need to be there because of course George was going to say yes once he’d found his brain again.
“Brilliant,” Harry said, pushing his glasses up with the heel of his hand. “Thank god that’s all sorted.”
Fred clapped Harry on the shoulder. He leaned in with a smirk on his face, glancing over at George for a moment to waggle his eyebrows. “Ah, but the real question is: do you know which Weasley you just asked?”
Harry glanced from Fred back to George. His nose scrunched up again, his glasses slipping down a few centimetres. He paused for a moment before looking George dead in the face and responding, “Percy.”
George rolled his eyes and kicked a bit of snow at him. “Don’t be a tit, Harry.”
“I’m not,” Harry said. “Well, I suppose I am, considering it took me so long to come out here. Probably should have just asked Percy, come to think of it. Reckon he would have been alright with an invitation through owl?”
“Don’t make me regret saying yes,” George said, raising an eyebrow. “And to think I thought you had good taste.”
The parchment jerked in George’s grip as Ginny let go. He glanced at her retreating back as she stomped down the hill, making a beeline for a group of girls in scarves of red and blue. He’d chat to her later, there was no use going after her now. Doubtless he was the last person she’d want to see.
“So, uh, I suppose I’ll see you later?” Harry said, looking between Fred and George.
Fred offered Harry a bow, flicking his coat out to the side as he bent down low. It made Harry grin, though he glanced at George two more times as he did it, rather than focusing on Fred’s antics. George watched him go back up the stone path that led to the main entrance to the castle, half out of sappiness and half out of concern that he might fall over in his oddly dazed looking state.
“Well, well, well,” Fred said, turning on George with a wolfish grin. “Georgie, Georgie, Georgie.”
“Bugger off.” George’s cheeks were starting to hurt from how widely he was smiling. Merlin, he was turning into a sap. He was worse than his mum.
“Reckon he’s been slipped a potion?” Fred asked, digging the point of his elbow into George’s ribs. “He’d have to have been if he’s asking out your ugly mug.” He made a proper great squawking sound when George pushed him into the snowbank, the snow deep enough that his upper body completely disappeared, only his legs left to stick out.
“Maybe he doesn’t know which one of us he asked.” George yanked at Fred’s leg until his brother slid out of the snowbank on his back. “He didn’t answer the question, to be fair. There’s hope for you yet.”
“He’d bloody better know which one he asked,” Fred said, shaking the snow from his hair. “Help me up, you git. Look, he’s a good lad but I don’t want to snog him. I’ll leave that to you.”
George felt his cheeks heat as he imagined snogging Harry. He’d snogged a few girls himself, here and there. Mostly at parties in the boys’ dorm, when they could convince the girls to go up there. It was the worst kept secret in Hogwarts, their parties. It was a bloody miracle that they’d never gotten broken up by McGonagall storming up the stairs in her tartan nightie.
Kissing was nice, but girls were often quite soft and they had long hair that went everywhere. They were lovely but they also reminded him a bit of his sister, which was the last thing he’d like to be thinking about when he had his lips pressed to someone else’s. Kissing Harry wouldn’t be like that, he was certain. Harry didn’t have tits, for one, nor did he have hair that would get caught under George’s elbow. His hair was fairly wild, but it looked manageable. His hands were a fair bit bigger than a girls’ too and dear sweet Merlin, George needed to reroute his thought process. The mental image was too much to bear.
His train of thought must have been blindingly obvious because Fred let out the loudest, most horrific wolf whistle that George had ever heard, attracting the attention of every person in a hundred metre radius, which looked to be half the bloody school. They all turned to look at Fred and George with mixed expressions of interest, amusement, and disapproval.
“I’ll push you again,” George hissed, leaning over to ruffle Fred’s hair firmly. “Shut your gob.”
“How does it feel to have all your dreams coming true?” Fred asked, puckering his lips and pretending to throw himself at George.
George didn’t answer him, just pushed him into the snowbank again. Fred landed in a cloud of white, snow flying up into the hair and raining back down on them both.
“Oi,” Fred yelled from inside the snowbank. He kicked his feet out, clearly aiming for George’s ankles.
George couldn’t help but smile as he yanked his brother back out onto the path, brushing snow from both of their shoulders. He could take the ribbing if it meant getting to take Harry to the Ball. He could scarcely believe it had happened, still wasn’t entirely convinced that he wouldn’t wake up in the Hospital Wing the next morning, the whole event just a Dragon Pox induced fever dream.
He’d let himself bask in the glow of it for one afternoon, because the calm almost certainly wouldn’t last. There’d be questions from other students, naturally, and he’d have to talk with Ginny about the whole thing, it was only fair. There’d be reporters lingering around and teachers might ask him about it, but there was one element that he knew was going to throw the whole thing into a whirlwind of questions and suggestions and quite possibly tears: telling his mum.
*
“Oh bugger,” George muttered.
It was a few days after Harry had asked him to the Ball and things had been decidedly normal. Word clearly hadn’t yet got around that Harry was off the market – for the Ball, anyway – and thus George had been able to go about his business without being accosted by groups of increasingly annoyed and baffled teenage girls.
He expected that the jig was likely up when a flurry of owls dumped no less than six separate letters onto the table in front of him at breakfast time. One landed in Lee’s bowl of porridge, sending lumps of it all over the Third Year who had the unfortunate luck of sitting next to him. At least none of them looked to be a Howler.
“What the fuck have you done now?” Kenneth asked, staring wide-eyed at the owl that had perched itself on the table in front of them. He waved his hand at it, making it bat its wings in annoyance before finally flying off. “They’re not supposed to land on the table, it’s bloody unsanitary.”
“Surely they’re not all from Mum,” Fred said, grabbing one of the envelopes and slicing it open with his butter knife. He had a wide smile on his face that looked maniacal enough to scare the First Years. George would have hexed him for it if he didn’t know that he’d be reacting the exact same way if their roles had been reversed.
“They definitely are.” George sighed and traded his fork for the thickest of the envelopes.
“This one’s got tear stains on it,” Fred said, screwing up his nose. “She’s barmy, that woman.”
“Don’t read it out loud,” George hissed, grabbing for the letter in Fred’s hand. He missed, nearly coating his entire arm in bacon grease in the process. “Give it here.”
His mum, was indeed, barmy as anything.
Each and every one of the letters was for George and nearly every word in them pertained to the Yule Ball. She’d left a footnote at the bottom of one of the pieces of parchment that was addressed to Fred and Ron, but that was it. Ginny had received her own letter, as evidenced by the fact that she was attempting to stuff something down her shirt with no great level of subtlety.
The tear-stained letter went on and on for a full two feet about how proud his mum was of George and how much she loved him and how she adored Harry and all that rot. George folded it up and tucked it in his pocket after skimming it; it was nice, sure, but a bit sappy for such an early hour. He’d show it Ron next time he got on his nerves; Ron’d never get a letter like that. Well, he might if he took up with Harry, but George suspected that their mum would be more concerned about how many times Harry had slept in Ron’s room than anything else in that scenario.
The next letter was similar, but far more restrained; she’d clearly written it after she’d had a bit of time to mull the situation over. It mainly focused on requesting that Harry come to the Burrow over the spring holidays so that he could meet Great-Aunt Tessie and Great-Uncle Altround and whatever other gnarled old branches of the Weasley family tree she could scrounge up. George knew that he’d have to tell her that, although Harry had asked him to the Ball, he hadn’t actually asked him out and that she was getting a bit ahead of herself.
The third letter talked specifics about the Ball and contained lots of scribbled out bits about money. It also told George in no uncertain terms to respect Harry’s physical boundaries and George wanted to die right there at the table.
“I’ll have that one,” Fred announced, yanking the letter out of George’s hand as heat rapidly rose on his face.
“I’m not going back home,” George said, releasing his hold on the letter. “I’m moving out, it’s done.”
“That’s foul, that is,” Fred said, pretending to vomit onto what remained of Lee’s porridge. Lee hadn’t removed the letter from his bowl, apparently content to sit there and give George the stink eye until he dealt with it himself. “I’m showing Ron.”
“He’s a tosser but he doesn’t deserve that,” George said, shaking his head.
Fred ignored him, opting to skip down the table to where Ron was sitting looking wholly content and shovelling eggs into his mouth at an astounding pace. George watched as Fred threw an arm around his shoulders and shoved the letter in his face, laughing loudly as the back of Ron’s neck turned bright red and he began to squirm.
The other letters were filled with pages ripped from catalogues of fashion magazines, each showing different styles of robes in a variety of colours.
Show these to Harry and give him my best, his mum had written. Be sure to let me know by Saturday which ones the two of you would like, I’ll be popping down to Diagon Alley over the weekend. Don’t brag to your brothers about the new robes, I know what you’re like. Your father and I send our love.
George frowned down at the parchment. New robes were expensive, particularly the styles that were included in the magazine clippings. Even more so because it would be a rush job, given how close they were to the Ball now. It wasn’t necessary; his pair from a few years ago still fit fine. They were a tad short in the sleeves and came up a bit higher on the leg than a properly tailored set would, but they still buttoned up and he could move about in them. There wasn’t any use going all out on a new pair.
“Anyone got a quill?” George asked, glancing around the table.
“Parchment too?” Kenneth asked, undoing the clasp on his bag.
“Ta.”
George penned a quick response to his mum, reassuring her that no, he didn’t need new dress robes, and could she please save her weepiness for any letters to Gin, he didn’t much like getting tears on his morning scone. He added a tiny message about sending his love back, but small enough that nobody would be able to see him writing it.
*
Ginny was surprisingly alright about everything when George finally caught her a few days later. All it took were a few jokes about how they both knew that Harry’s eyesight was godawful and that’s why he didn’t go for her instead, and a tiny little comment about daddy issues that they both cringed at but that seemed to do the trick.
“All I’m saying is that it makes sense?” George said, ruffling Ginny’s hair.
“Stop, I’m going to vom. You’re disgusting,” she said, but she smiled all wide and toothy like she used to do when she was little, and George knew everything was alright again. “Has Mum told you that I’m getting a new dress for the Ball?”
As a matter of fact, she had – a fact which was causing no small amount of drama when it came to Ron. He’d not stopped whining about how unfair it was that George and Ginny and even Harry got new clothes while he didn’t. Fred had shut him up by rolling his eyes and reminding Ron that he too existed and that he’d get a nice new bit of clothing in the form of brightly coloured feathers if he didn’t shut his gob about it. Fourth Years weren’t even usually allowed to go to the Yule Ball; they only were that year because of Harry, so he didn’t have a leg to stand on. George would tell him so, if he gave even a single toss about the whole thing, which he didn’t.
“George doesn’t even care about his robes though,” Ron said, gesturing wildly down the table in George’s direction.
He was correct. George had shrugged upon receiving a letter back from his mum which rebuffed him and again insisted on him and Harry both getting new robes. She wrote that she expected that there would be photos taken and she wanted a nice memory of the evening to keep for him to show his grandkids, bloody fucking hell.
She hadn’t said anything more than that, but George could read between the lines. She wanted him to look his best not just because he would be seen, but because they all would be. Their family had a somewhat poor reputation among other established wizarding families, and she saw it as her chance to improve it in some small way.
George had never been embarrassed by the handmade sweaters or the trousers that were a little too short after an extra winter of being worn, of taking Bill’s old satchel to school and receiving textbooks that were a few editions out of date. His parents had raised them all to be grateful for what they had and to not expect more than they needed. But regardless, it was difficult not to feel the heavy looks of judgement levelled at his family when they all went out in public together, a mass of red hair amongst the charcoal coloured robes and stern expressions of the wixen public. His mum didn’t want to be tutted at in the street if he was splashed across the front page of the paper wearing robes that stopped above his ankles and shoes a size too small. She didn’t want that, and George didn’t want that for her either, despite not particularly caring about the clothes himself.
As his sister, Ginny was duty-bound to care about that kind of stuff. George didn’t much go for traditional gender stereotypes, but he’d play the sister card if it worked to his advantage.
“Gin,” George said. He cleared his throat and repeated himself a little louder, fighting to be heard over the giggling of Ginny’s friends.
“Speak,” Ginny said, raising her eyebrows at George. “Hurry up, we’re in the middle of something.”
He tossed the stack of magazine pages into her lap, a few sliding off onto the floor. He was glad to be rid of them; it had felt downright illicit hiding them in his trunk since his mum had sent them. It was one thing to take a bloke to the Yule Ball, it was a whole different thing to be hiding clothing magazines under his pillow. He wasn’t quite that desperate, nor did he want a rumour of that type to be spread around the school. Not that he cared about the whole ‘liking blokes’ thing, it was more the ‘being desperate enough to spend evenings gazing at pictures of fully clothed blokes in traditional wizarding attire’ thing. Being desperate wasn’t a good look, no matter who you were.
“I need you to choose some robes for me by tomorrow morning. And owl mum about whatever you pick, yeah? She doesn’t want me to look like a tosser and you know I need all the help I can get when it comes to that.”
Ginny let out a low whistle, raising one of the pages to block her face from George’s view. “This is a lot of power you’re giving me here. Pink’s apparently in season now, you know?”
“Mum’ll kill you if you make me look shite.”
Ginny snorted. “We both know that’s a lie. She’d tell you off for saying that I picked wrong.”
“True.” George whirled around, flicking Ginny a salute as he did so. “And that’s why I’m putting a ridiculously high level of trust in you. Don’t abuse your newfound power.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied, before her voice was lost in the swath of giggles that were rapidly rising in volume.
Even if Ginny picked pink robes, George was sure he could bribe Fred to switch with him. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.
*
What was beginning to feel like the end of the world was George’s newfound ability to see Harry literally everywhere he went. It was like Harry had a tracking spell on him; he began popping up in the oddest of places.
If George went right to the back of the library, past even the hidden snogging spot in the Arithmancy section, Harry would be back there browsing titles that hadn’t been opened since the Chamber of Secrets was installed. If George went down to the Greenhouses to nick some extra Chinese Cobra Lily leaves to use in his and Fred’s latest invention, Harry was down there admiring the bloody Mandrake’s from outside the dirty viewing window. If George decided to spend the evening in the Owlery, Harry suddenly had multiple letters to send, all of which apparently needed to be spaced out and would keep him there for a while.
“You keep popping up everywhere,” George said. He raised an eyebrow at Harry from his crouched position, hiding in an alcove as he waited for Lee to walk by. “I’m starting to think that you’re following me.”
“Maybe I am,” Harry replied. He gave George a grin so bright that it made him sink against the wall for support, the stone rough and cool against his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Preparing. Step in here or Lee’ll see you.”
Harry did, shuffling into the alcove until he was crouched next to George. Their knees brushed, sending heat rising in George’s cheeks. “Can I help?”
“What, with pranking Lee?”
Harry nodded so enthusiastically that his glasses slipped down his nose. “He won’t suspect me. It’s the perfect cover.”
“Sure,” George said, swallowing deeply. His throat had gone dry as he looked at Harry, the shadows of the alcove somehow making his eyes seem even brighter than usual. “Are you, uh, excited for the Ball?”
“No,” Harry said, his grin turning bashful. “Well, I am, but also … not. For some parts of it, anyway.”
“Ah, yes,” George said, nodding sagely. “McGonagall’s dance lessons are a bit intimidating, aren’t they? She’s quite forward for a lass her age, was rather handsy with Flitwick when they did their demonstration.”
Harry groaned and leaned his head against the wall of the alcove. “Reckon I could fake an injury to get out of it?”
“Not a chance,” George said, nudging Harry’s knee with his own. “They’d string you up and parade you around even if you were out cold. Nasty bout of Dragon Pox might do it, but then there’s all those unfortunate side effects.”
“What kind?” Harry asked, leaning in slightly.
“Well,” George said. His throat was all dry again and he couldn’t look away from Harry’s very pink mouth. “There’s the fever and the sweating – nasty stuff. And the, uh, the shrunken toes.”
“Shrunken toes?” Harry snorted, his eyes widening.
“Yep. Good for the cobblers, not so much for anyone else. Have you ever tried to get a rush order for shoes half your original size? It’s not easy, let me tell you.”
Harry just blinked at him as though he had no idea what was going on, but he was enjoying himself anyway. In truth, George had no idea what was coming out of his mouth, had barely heard any of it.
“Have, uh, have your dress robes been sorted? Gin reckons she’s convinced Mum to order me pink ones. Bit of a horror for the complexion, but a right laugh all the same.”
“Yeah, they came in the post yesterday,” Harry said. He shuffled, his knees sliding against George’s. “They’re really nice, actually. Better than I expected once I saw Ron’s. He looks a bit like a lamp that my aunt would have picked out.”
“Poor bastard,” George said, clicking his tongue. “Oh well, he’ll survive.”
“Are yours actually pink?”
“No idea,” George said.
He hadn’t the faintest, hadn’t even opened the box yet. It had come in the mail alongside a wrapped package with Fred’s old dress robes in it from a wedding they’d been to during their second year at school. The robes had countless lengthening charms woven into the charcoal fabric; the sleeves hung far enough down Fred’s arms to brush his wrists now, despite his growth spurt since he’d last worn them. Their mum must’ve spent hours altering them.
“I’m sure they’ll look alright,” Harry said, his voice dropping in volume slightly, “whatever colour they are.”
George opened and then closed his mouth, not really sure what to say. The air seemed heavier than it had before, more charged. He was suddenly keenly aware of his proximity to Harry and how bright his eyes looked, how soft his smile was.
The sudden appearance of Lee saved him from scrambling about and doing … whatever the fuck his brain had in mind. Lee was heading down the hallway at a brisk pace, a stack of books from the library piled high on his forearms.
“Alright,” George said, turning his head to watch his friend go. He fumbled in his pocket for the triangular shape that he’d wrapped up in a lace hanky. “Give this to him and make sure that he touches it. Don’t touch it yourself or you’ll activate it.”
“What is it?” Harry asked, holding up the shape to the non-existent light.
“A prototype. Go, go before he gets away.”
“Alright,” Harry said, rising to stand. He towered over George in that position, his robes swishing around his ankles. “I’ll see you later then?”
George nodded, poking his head out of the alcove to watch Lee’s back as he strutted away in the direction of the common room.
“Lee,” Harry called, jogging down the corridor, his bag bumping against his hip. “This fell out of your pocket.”
It was obvious the moment that Lee touched the snowflake, the Sonorous working exactly as intended. George fell against the wall laughing as the snowflake belted out a repeated cry of Katie Bell, Katie Bell, Katie Bell while Lee swore and attempted to muffle it with his robes.
George poked his head out of the alcove again to see Harry with his back to Lee, eyes combing the length of the wall. He gave George a grin and a double thumbs up when they locked eyes, which had George’s laughter dying in his chest. It was replaced by a feeling of fondness so strong that he felt like he might need to go and lie down and recover for a bit, like some nineteenth century maiden.
It was mildly tragic, being so gone on Harry Potter.
*
George didn’t see Harry again until a few days later – catching his eye from the other end of the corridor didn’t count.
He wasn’t used to feeling so nervous all the time; it wasn’t like this was his first crush. He’d snogged loads of girls before, so it wasn’t a big deal. It was bloody mental, how his brain was reacting to the whole thing. He needed a distraction.
Pelting Ron with snowballs seemed like as good a distraction as any. The only issue was, where Ron went, Harry was usually close behind.
Harry, with his cheeks reddened from the cold and his messy hair and his uncontrollable laughter when George hit Ron square in the forehead with a snowball. It was enough to send any bloke round the bend. George took a few more hits than he usually would, trying not to stare and trying not to be caught trying not to stare.
He and Fred made a formidable team, not afraid to use magic to their advantage. They’d refused to teach Ron how to make the snowballs sentient years ago and he’d not stopped nagging them about it since. They likely never would, given that he always lost snowball fights to them because of it.
Hermione seemed to be enjoying herself more than anyone, sitting off to the sidelines with a book open in her lap, her long scarf looped back over her shoulder. She clapped and smiled when Ron received a deluge of snow down the back of his shirt, courtesy of a well-placed charm. Fred tripped over his own foot watching her and looked like a right idiot in the process.
“Let’s take a break,” Ron cried, flopping onto his back in the snow. “I don’t yield, but I say we take a break.”
“Sure you don’t,” Fred said, dropping down on top of him.
The snow crunched under Harry’s shoes as he walked over to George, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. There was a bit of white in his hair and down the front of his jumper, tiny ice crystals clinging to the knitted fibres.
“Have you had any more luck with your invention, the one you gave Lee?”
“We tested it on Marcus Belby yesterday. With permission.”
Ron shrieked as Fred dropped a fistful of snow directly down onto his face.
“Did it work?”
“Course it worked,” George replied. “They always work. Well, most of the time they work. Usually.”
Harry nodded. “Brilliant.”
“Harry, help me,” Ron cried, kicking out at Fred’s legs.
“So what does it do?”
The tip of Harry’s nose was red, like he’d just eaten one of the chilli flavoured Every Flavour Beans. George wanted to place his finger there until the spot warmed under his skin. He wondered what Harry would do if he tried it, if he’d shrug him off or if he’d let him.
He didn’t really know anymore.
“What?” George blinked, forcing his eyes to refocus. His vision had gone a bit fuzzy.
“The white thing you gave Lee. What does it do, aside from shout names?”
“Oh, uh,” George said, shaking his head. “If I tell you I’d have to kill you.”
Harry smiled widely, tilting his head up to look at George. He was standing awfully close, far closer than necessary, really. “Would you … um…”
“Harry,” Ron shouted. He sounded vaguely strangled. “Help me or I swear I’ll toss your bloody cloak out the window when you’re asleep tonight.”
“Talk to you later?” Harry asked. He looked a little disappointed, though George couldn’t imagine why.
“Bloody hell, Harry, put your back into it,” Ron cried as Harry half-heartedly attempted to shove Fred off of him.
“Two against one, that’s low,” Fred cried. “Grow some bollocks, Ronald.”
*
“Are you gonna give it to him or not?”
“What?” George asked, turning towards Fred. He shook his head to clear it, blinking through the fogginess that had clouded his brain.
“The present that you’ve been badly hiding in your dress shoes?”
“Why were you looking in my dress shoes?” George stepped out of the way of a group of Beauxbatons girls who had apparently decided that it was their right to take up the entire path. They tended to travel in packs; where there was one, there was sure to be ten more hiding around the next corner. He’d half a mind to think Ron’s forwardness a few weeks back had terrified the lot of them into never leaving each other’s sight. A justified terror, obviously.
Fred shrugged. “Thought about putting something in them. Reconsidered once I saw how much of a bloody girl you were being.”
“Oi,” George said, whacking his brother upside the head. “Gin would have your head for saying that.”
“So…” Fred nudged him three times, each more exaggerated than the last. “What’s the present?”
“Surprised you didn’t look at it.”
“Thought it might be something weird.” Fred wiggled his eyebrows at the next group of Beauxbatons girls, getting a plethora of disgusted looks in return.
“It’s not weird,” George said.
It wasn’t weird. Sappy, yes, but not weird. He hoped it wasn’t weird, anyway.
He’d been dithering over whether or not to actually give Harry his Christmas present. He’d arranged it before Harry had asked him to the Ball, back when the biggest thing they talked about was the Tournament. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now it might be a little … much?
It wasn’t like George had ever given Harry a present just from him before. The closest thing to it had been when he and Fred passed on the Marauders Map – a decision that Fred still threatened to slice off his bollocks for on a weekly basis, crowing about how much more they could be getting up to if George hadn’t pushed so hard for Harry to have the map. He’d given Hermione a book once, he supposed, but that had been nicked from Filch’s office and he’d let Fred be the one to give that to her anyway.
He considered making a trip down to Hogsmeade to get something for Hermione to make the whole thing feel less odd. The only issue was that there were no more Hogsmeade trips before Christmas, and he didn’t much feel like bunking off class to go there. If he got caught sneaking out through one of the hidden passageways there was no way he’d be allowed to go to the Ball; they’d have Dumbledore himself guarding the entrance to stop him from getting in there. There weren’t enough promises, bribery, and manipulation tactics in the world that would get Fred to pretend to be George and stay up in Gryffindor Tower for the night, thus giving up his shot at snogging Angelina on the dancefloor. There was no bloody way.
He decided to just get the gift giving over with since he’d already sorted it anyway. The only thing more naff than giving your unrequited crush a hopelessly emotional present was holding on to said present and staring aimlessly at it while lamenting the fact that said person would never like you back. At least Christmas was an excuse; better to give it to Harry on a holiday known for gift giving rather than shoving it into his hand at breakfast one day or holding onto it until bloody July.
He could picture it clearly and in excruciating detail, how he’d stumble over his words and lose every bit of that ‘coolness’ that Ron apparently secretly thought that he had. He'd say something completely bloody daft like ‘I was just thinking of you’ and then he’d have to leave school early out of sheer embarrassment and never get his N.E.W.T.s and Fred would laugh at him until the end of time.
It was a truly depressing thought.
*
The morning of the 25th was blisteringly cold, the type of weather that bit at your cheeks the moment that you walked outside. It was the type of weather that made George curse whoever had gotten full face masks banned at Hogwarts. If he and Fred could find a way to make transparent ones they’d really be in business.
Christmas mornings in the dorms were always great fun; everyone was happy and laughing and more than willing to share their sweets and never minded being the butt of one or two of Fred and George’s more light-hearted jokes. They’d woken their dormmates up that morning with a modified Howler singing Celestina Warbeck’s newest track at a shrill pitch only able to be matched by the woman herself. Kenneth had taken only a few moments to blink before he was throwing himself out of bed and kneeling on the floor, giving the chorus his absolute all.
Lee had been sent the biggest parcel of Every Flavour Beans George had ever seen and they made a game out of guessing who had eaten the worst flavour, judged only by their expression. George nearly pissed himself at seeing Fred’s attempt at concealing a vomit flavoured one, his eyes watering even as he attempted to plaster a smile onto his face.
There wasn’t much in the way of presents from home, but George hadn’t expected there to be, what with the added cost of his and Harry’s new robes and Ginny’s dress. He and Fred had pulled a bit of their money together in anticipation of it, Sickles earned from selling Canary Creams to a group of First Years and absolutely ripping them off in the process, so that they could get Ron and Ginny something.
Ginny’s present was a new pair of shoes, some sparkly silver things with straps that made George’s ankles ache in sympathy, but Angelina said that she’d love them and gave Fred a bit of a heated look that sent George running for the hills before he’d need a hasty Obliviate. The shoes should have appeared at the end of her bed that morning, delivered with the rest of the gifts by the silent army of house elves that somehow went completely unnoticed by the rest of the student body.
Ron’s gift was much less showy, but also more likely to be appreciated than if they’d gotten him a pair of sparkly shoes to match Ginny’s. The present at the end of his bed, wrapped in four separate layers of joke parchment, was a book about Quidditch training written by Aster Cross, one of the greatest Chasers of the last century. He’d played for any team that was worth their salt and had even donned a Cannons jumper for a time, right as he was starting out. It was no secret that Ron wanted badly to get on the Gryffindor team, and that it caused him no small amount of suffering to know that each of his older brothers (bar Percy, but Percy never counted where it actually mattered) had made the House team by their fourth year. George had flipped through the book before wrapping it and had considered duplicating it to read for himself; the tips and detailed instructions for different plays weren’t half bad.
Ron and Ginny’s gifts were fine, but giving Harry something emotionally charged was a wholly different thing. He couldn’t even lie and say that it was all Fred’s idea because Fred just simply … wouldn’t?
Breakfast on Christmas morning was always extended, giving everyone enough time to open their gifts before they came down. The feast was a right proper treat, loads of pancakes and chocolate scones and crumpets bigger than your head. George didn’t see Harry until he made it back up to the common room, clutching his stomach and leaning against Kenneth for support. Fred made a groaning sound as they crossed the threshold, flopping dramatically onto one of the couches and nearly kicking a Second Year girl clean in the face.
“Watch it,” she hissed, frowning over at Fred.
“Shh,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’m about to burst.”
She gave a loud huff and moved to an armchair in the corner, a large box open on her lap.
“Oi,” Ron shouted from the other side of the room. “Thanks for the book, dickheads.” He held the Quidditch book aloft in the air and gave George a grin and a thumbs up.
“We were hoping that Hermione was rubbing off on you and you’d finally start being less of a tit,” Fred said, but it was almost entirely muffled by the cushion that he was pressing against his face.
Harry looked up then, catching George’s eye from across the room. He smiled, a soft little thing that seemed private, despite all the other people there with them. He was wearing a green knitted jumper with a yellow dragon on the front, no doubt a present from Mum.
George spared a glance down at himself, feeling his stomach churn when he registered that his own jumper effectively matched Harry’s; his was light green rather than dark, but had yellow stitching around the collar and a large yellow ‘G’ in the middle that was the same shade as Harry’s dragon. It was more than a little anxiety inducing, but also quite nice, in a way.
The whole ‘marry someone who your family likes’ thing always seemed a bit shite and wildly overblown in George’s opinion. Whoever he shacked up with would need to like Fred – or just tolerate Fred, whichever worked – but they didn’t need to set up weekly appointments to braid his sister’s hair or whatever. The idea had always seemed like another piece of antiquated Pureblood bullshit, but George was starting to see the value in it now, at least a little bit.
Everyone in his family liked Harry; hell, his mum loved Harry more than a few of her own children, George secretly suspected. There would never be any awkwardness if he had Harry round for dinner or if he brought him along on a family trip to Diagon Alley, not like Charlie’s girlfriend he had during his sixth year. She’d stayed at the Burrow for a week over the summer break and his mum had banned anyone from having friends over for a full year after that. George still wasn’t sure what the girl had done, but his mum had shouted at Charlie out in the garden for a solid hour before stomping back inside and making the most well-kneaded bread dough known to mankind.
Thinking about Harry hugging his mum and humouring his dad as he nattered on about weird Muggle inventions and hanging out by the fire playing chess with Ron and putting his hand up to play a bit of family Quidditch in the garden … the whole thing made warmth spread through George’s chest. He dropped his eyes to his lap as he fought to contain his smile, sure that what he was thinking must be written clear across his face.
Not that he was planning on marrying Harry, Merlin alive. He just thought he was alright. A fair bit alright, in fact.
“Oi,” Fred said, nudging at George with his foot. “You should give him the present now, you know. Who knows what Ron’ll have him doing later on.”
“What present?” Kenneth asked. He bit off the end of his toffee bar, chewing viciously.
“You’re a tit if you don’t,” Fred said. “I dare you to.”
“Bugger off,” George muttered, but who was he to turn down a dare? He had a reputation to uphold, after all.
Walking over to where Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sat was like walking down the corridor to Filch’s office for a particularly torrid detention. His stomach churned with anxiety; he already felt embarrassed, though he hadn’t actually done anything yet. He was certain that everyone in the common room must be looking at him; could probably hear him too. No doubt a Sonorous would decide to burst into existence right at the most inopportune time and broadcast his idiocy to everyone in earshot.
He stopped by the arm of the couch that Harry and Ron were sat on, Hermione lying on her stomach on the floor. She looked up from her book to smile at him, offering him a small wave.
“Hi, George. Good Christmas?”
“Alright, yeah. No explosions yet, so could be better.” He shuffled his feet, trying to grasp for any bit of bravery left in him. It was different to making a joke and knowing that people would laugh; this was a whole separate beast entirely.
“I, uh, I got you something for Christmas,” George said, nodding down at his feet.
“I know, you wanker,” Ron said. “Did you want a personal letter of thanks?”
“Yes, actually, but I wasn’t talking to you, you git.” George swallowed and glanced over at Harry, who was watching him intently. “Did you want it now or later?”
Harry’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he said, a smile spreading across his face. “Did you really? I didn’t get you anything though.”
George shrugged. “Didn’t expect you to. Would probably have thought Ron’d messed with it if you had.” One year, Ron had given both him and Fred matching bottles of shampoo that turned their hair bright green for an entire month. The two of them hadn’t accepted a present from him since.
“Now then, I suppose. Now would be great. Brilliant, actually.” Harry was wiggling on the couch like he couldn’t quite sit still, a bit like an overeager Crup. It was … rather bloody endearing.
“Wait here, I’ll get it from my trunk.” He considered inviting Harry up with him to get the present. It would certainly save him from the embarrassment of giving it to him in the middle of the common room with his brother not six feet away. First the invitation to the Ball with Fred and Ginny in earshot, now his sappy Christmas present with Ron sitting right there; he and Harry were going for the entire Weasley set, apparently. Perhaps he’d finally ask Harry out to Hogsmeade on a joint Firecall with Bill. McGonagall could surely be convinced to let George borrow her Floo for the occasion.
It was a tempting thought, inviting Harry up. He’d be able to go; the spells on the staircases didn’t take into account that some witches and wizards weren’t straight. It was a wonder that they hadn’t changed that whole thing yet, given that Charlie had apparently been caught by McGonagall bringing every single member of Hufflepuff’s Quidditch team up there one after the other during his time at school.
He could do it, but he wouldn’t. It would be too much, seeing Harry there in his space. Just talking to him now was nerve wracking enough, he didn’t need to see Harry amongst his things as well, not when there were only a few short hours until they’d have their hands on each other as they danced.
He'd moved the present out of his dress shoes and tucked it inside one of his old Weasley jumpers at the bottom of his trunk, just in case Fred decided to go back on what he’d said and mess with it for a laugh. He grabbed the small box out; the present was wrapped in a blue piece of paper Transfigured from a torn off bit at the bottom of one of his Potions essays. Snape had knocked off a few marks for it, which was poor form in George’s opinion; you could still see what he’d written about the properties of Mugwort, but whatever. It was worth it.
The box fit in the palm of his hand, easily concealed by his fingers as he slipped it into his pocket. It left a little lump there in his trousers that were getting a bit tight, stretched to their limits with tailoring spells.
The wrapping could probably have been done better, but Harry was just going to toss it out anyway. His mum used to spend hours charming the paper when they were little, making little fire breathing dragons race across it to nip at their fingers when they tugged at the bow; little smiling suns and frowning rainclouds that lit up the room when they shot out a bolt of lightning. George had never quite gotten the hang of folding the paper and keeping it neat while he stuck it in place; his Sticking Charms never hit the right spot and sometimes took his jumper with it, if he was particularly unlucky. He’d stuck Ron’s hair to the parchment once while they were wrapping a present for their dad, although that had only been half by accident.
Usually he paid Ginny to do it for him; she was easily bought with a few extra lollies from Hogsmeade to sweeten the deal, though less so now that she could just go and get the sweets herself.
Regardless, he didn’t want Ginny anywhere near this thing with Harry, whatever it was.
Harry was crouched on the ground with Hermione when George walked back down the stairs. Their heads were bent low as they talked at a rapid pace, taking turns at gesturing wildly. They looked up at him at the same time, their heads turning in sync.
“It’s not one of those Creams, is it?” Ron asked, wrinkling his nose. “Be a bit of a shit thing to do the morning of the Ball, mate.”
“Nah,” George said. He wasn’t sure whether to just hold it out to Harry, or was he supposed to make some big speech and explain the meaning behind the present? He had no bloody idea what to do.
Hermione saved him from dithering about, as she often seemed to.
“Come over here, Ron,” she hissed, tugging at his sleeve. “We’ll go by the window and eavesdrop on what Dean’s saying to Parvati, shall we?”
“Uh, nah?” Ron said, raising an eyebrow. “I want to see what George got Harry.”
“Ron,” she hissed, all but dragging him off the couch by his arm. “Come over here.”
“Bloody hell, alright,” he cried, rubbing at his arm as he trailed Hermione across the room. “You’re stronger than you look, you know that?”
“Jesus,” Harry muttered, watching Ron go. He moved back onto the couch, turning his head towards George. “If he wasn’t my best mate…” He brushed his hair back off his forehead, his scar standing out starkly against his skin.
George tried not to stare, though he found himself forgetting at times. It was always a somewhat shocking reminder that the person in front of him, his little brother’s best mate and his mildly embarrassing crush, was the kid they’d all grown up hearing whispered stories about. Harry wasn’t like that, some mythical figure who was all-powerful and both a saviour and a threat to the wizarding world at the same time; he was just Harry. It was weird.
George sat down on the couch next to Harry, perched right on the edge. He held out the little blue parchment box and waited for Harry to take it from him.
“It’s a prototype,” he explained, watching as Harry tugged at the paper until the Sticking Charms gave way. He was taking far more care than expected; George probably would have just torn clean through the parchment himself. “Something that Freddie and I have been working on, but I changed it up a bit for you.”
It sounded all big and weighty when he put it like that, altering his invention specifically with Harry in mind. But it wasn’t a huge change; the base mechanics were still the same. He’d just removed any trace of malice from it.
Harry placed the blue paper on his lap, folding it along the creases until it sat flat and neat, ready to be used again. He could do it if he wanted to; George hadn’t written his name on it anywhere, lest one of his dormmates find the present and tease him mercilessly about it.
In Harry’s palm was a silver snowflake, identical in appearance to the one George had Harry give Lee. However, this one didn’t immediately start shouting when Harry touched it, as Lee’s had. The silver in the centre began to change colour, a blurry picture starting to form.
“Lee’s said ‘Katie Bell’,” Harry said, glancing up at George. “Mine won’t do that, will it?”
“I mean, you tell me,” George joked. “It’s charmed to say the name of the person that the holder has a crush on; loudly and repeatedly.”
Harry’s eyes widened and he looked from George to the snowflake, his fingers tightening around the shape as though he could muffle a Sonorous that way.
“Yours won’t though,” George quickly said. “I changed it.”
The original prototype was a somewhat genius idea born from one of Fred’s naps in the library, the kind where he ended up drooling all over his Transfiguration essay and getting his arse handed to him by McGonagall. The snowflake was intended as a gag gift for one mate to give to another. He and Fred envisioned chaos erupting in the Great Hall as people touched them, the names of half the student body echoing off the stone walls. They’d be rich from it. They were still workshopping product names, but they were close to finalising everything, he could feel it. They’d be ready to sell by Valentine’s Day, no doubt about it.
Harry’s present, however, was nothing like the original prototype. Instead of screaming the name of Harry’s crush at the maximum decibel of a Sonorous, the snowflake would instead show moving images of the people that Harry loved. When he held it in his hand he would see the faces of Ron and Hermione, of Hagrid and Dobby, of Hedwig and George’s mum.
Maybe one day it would show George as well. He hoped it would, no matter how farfetched the idea was.
His voice shook a little as he explained the present to Harry, his nerves not dissipating as he spoke. The awkwardness remained, although Harry didn’t seem to be picking up on it. His eyes had gotten steadily wider as George spoke, the tight grip of his fingers around the snowflake relaxing further with each word. He held the snowflake up to his face, palm flat, as the colours in the centre swirled and unblurred, revealing the smiling face of Sirius Black. The image winked and gave a relaxed wave as Harry stared, open-mouthed.
“I thought it might be good for you to use, you know, before the Tasks,” George suggested. “Seemed like a good way to not be as nervous, if you got to see the people that love you before you have to do them. I dunno.”
Harry looked awestruck, his eyes finally dragging upwards from the tiny version of Hermione, who was being shuffled to the side by an enthusiastic Ron, his hair somehow even redder than normal.
The longer that Harry stared at him, his eyes brilliantly green and swirling with something that George couldn’t decipher, the more that George felt that he might have let a little too much slip, might have given himself away more than he’d intended to.
“Well,” he said, slapping his hands on his thighs and rising to stand. “Suppose I’ll be off then. See you later?”
He’d see Harry later if he hadn’t scared him off, that was.
“Yeah,” Harry said after a moment. His voice was quiet, but George could hear the shake in it, the depth of emotion that was there. He didn’t know what to do with it, had no idea what Harry expected him to say or do.
With that, George made a beeline for the staircase, taking every bit of advantage that his long legs offered him to reach it as quickly as possible. He tried to ignore Fred’s knowing smile, his brother watching him from his reclined position on the couch.
He paused at the top of the first staircase, right on the little balcony there. Harry hadn’t moved from his spot on the couch. Ron and Hermione darted over as soon as George left, both crowding around Harry and asking what George had given him. Harry was staring down at the snowflake in his cupped palm, blatantly ignoring their questions. He had a wide grin on his face that didn’t look like it was going away anytime soon. It was a brilliant feeling to have been the one to put it there.
*
The evening came around both far too quickly and way too slowly at the same time. Even spelling Kenneth’s socks to jump about and sing a Weird Sisters song couldn’t cure his anxiety. Fred ended up dragging him downstairs to find Peeves to take his mind off things. Sending off spell after spell that had antlers growing out of the poltergeist’s head and a flock of sparrows following him around the unused classrooms distracted George somewhat, as did the inevitable rush to get back to the safety of the common room when Peeves finally spotted them and alerted Filch.
“Right, suppose we should start getting ready then?” Fred sighed, letting the portrait door click shut behind him. “Merlin knows it’ll take an age to fix this shite up.” He gestured a hand at George and then himself.
“Should’ve just used Polyjuice,” George nodded. “Lockhart would’ve been a good one to go for. Still reckon McGonagall had a thing for him.”
“Half the professors had a thing for him.”
“Hermione sure did,” George joked, nudging Fred with an elbow.
“Bugger off, you’re as dumb as you look,” Fred said. “I’ve half a mind to swap our dress robes out.”
“Even if they’re pink?”
“Especially if they’re pink.”
They weren’t pink.
George had never claimed to know anything about fashion – nor did he particularly want to – but even he could tell that Ginny and his mum had outdone themselves.
His robes were a deep red with a silver lining that glistened when the light caught it. His shirt matched the lining, a soft, shimmery material that almost seemed to glow under the dorm lights. The buttons on the shirt were a green colour so dark they almost looked black. The whole thing looked properly nice, and he thought he looked fairly fit.
“Blimey,” Lee cried. He pretended to swoon, flopping back down on his bed and sending one of his dress shoes flying clear across the room. “Who are you and what have you done with George Weasley?”
“He’s finally keeping up with his better-looking twin,” Fred said, giving George an appreciative nod.
“You do look proper fit, mate,” Kenneth said. “Better fix that collar though.”
“Harry’s got some competition has he?” Lee asked, raising his eyebrows lecherously at Kenneth.
“Sod off, nobody’s got competition with anyone. And we’re not together, we’re just going to the Ball.”
“Together,” Fred said, rather unhelpfully.
“To the Ball.”
“Too right, to the Ball together.”
“Shut it.”
“Grow a pair and ask him out, would you,” Fred said, rolling his eyes. “Properly. Or I’ll do it for you.”
“Now that I’d pay to see,” Lee said. “Fred trying to flirt with Harry Potter? Brilliant stuff.”
“No,” George said. “Not brilliant stuff. Do it and I won’t save you any crumpets for a month.”
“I can live without crumpets,” Fred said. “I’ll live off the knowledge that I’m doing you a favour as your brother.”
“Shut up and help me fix this bloody collar,” George grumbled.
Kenneth stepped in, smoothing down the collar at the back and readjusting the robes on George’s shoulders. He gave him a comforting slap on the back and stepped away, doing up the last few buttons on his own shirt.
George looked at himself in the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair. He couldn’t get it to lay quite right, it kept sticking up on the side. There was half a tin of Sleekeazy's in there and it still looked naff.
Fred came up beside him and nodded at him in the mirror. They’d never looked less similar than they did right then, George’s hair neat, Fred’s messy, George’s robes a deep red and properly tailored, Fred’s dark grey and too tight in the shoulders. He didn’t much like it, that difference. “You ready?”
“Nope,” George said. “Got any of that liquid courage?”
“Saving it for the pumpkin juice,” Fred grinned. “Don’t worry, it’ll be a laugh tonight. Don’t forget your flower.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” George took a deep breath and nodded to himself.
“Don’t stress,” Fred said, his voice much quieter now. “Harry’s not going to know what hit him.”
George was slightly afraid of that. There was still the possibility that Harry would show up to the common room with a date that wasn’t George, that he’d changed his mind at the last second and actually thought it quite weird to be going with his best mate’s brother.
If that happened, at least there’d be spiked pumpkin juice to dull the pain.
Failing that, George was out of ideas.
They all filed down to the common room one after the other. Despite the cocky jokes and general ribbing that had happened while they were getting ready, both Lee and Kenneth seemed a bit nervous. A general air of anxiety hung over those waiting in the common room, spread out on the rugs and sat in front of the fire, dressed to the nines. There was excitement, sure, but the night seemed to be a rather big deal for everyone. It made George feel a little bit better about being half out of his mind about everything.
Lee slipped out the portrait door after a few final pats on the back as he headed to meet his date, a Ravenclaw Fifth Year. Kenneth kept pulling a tiny mirror out of the pocket of his robes to check his teeth, though he’d not eaten anything since dinner. Fred had taken to stuffing as many logs into the fireplace as possible, stacking them one on top of the other until the fire was nearly snuffed out.
The Fourth Year boys made their way down the staircase with all the grace of a herd of Erumpents; George heard them before he saw them. Dean nearly tripped on Ron’s dress robes as they stumbled along, jostling and nudging at each other.
Harry caught George’s eye when he was about halfway down the stairs. He froze when they locked eyes, one foot raised in the air.
“Fucking hell,” Seamus muttered, giving Harry a gentle shove that nearly sent him toppling down the steps. “Go on, keep going, I’ve got lasses to woo.”
Harry made his way over to George, his face tipped down towards the floor. He kept playing with the sleeves of his robes, tugging them down over his hands and shoving them back up again. “You look nice,” he said, still staring down at his feet.
“You do too,” George said. He wasn’t lying; Harry looked brilliant. His robes were a dark green colour that set off his eyes, making them look even more striking than usual. The hem and collar had silver stitching in a wavy type of design that matched George’s perfectly. His shiny silver shirt had dark red buttons on the front, the same shade as that of George’s robes. It would be blindingly obvious to everyone that the two of them matched.
Harry’s eyes flicked up to meet George’s and then darted back down to his feet again. He ran a hand over the top of his head in a clear attempt to smooth his wild hair down. It was already far flatter than normal, having been tamed somewhat. He’d so obviously made an effort.
The thought of Harry combing his hair and sitting in front of the mirror trying to style it, of polishing the arms of his glasses until they shined, of trying to make himself look nice before coming to meet George. It made his stomach do a little swoop.
Harry shuffled his feet again, tugging at the sleeves of his robes. He looked just as nervous as George felt, which gave him more than a little comfort. He looked like he’d appreciate a lightening of the mood. That George could do.
“Chin up, old bean,” George said, giving Harry a nudge. “It’ll be a laugh, remember? I promise.”
Harry’s eyes were big and green when he looked up. His throat worked as he swallowed, eyes flicking to different points on George’s face. After a moment, the corners of his mouth twitched up and his shoulders visibly relaxed.
“Yeah,” Harry said, properly smiling now. “It’ll be a laugh.”
A loud whistle directly to his right made George jump and nearly careen into Harry. The abominable noise had come from Fred, who was loudly complimenting Angelina on her dress as he twirled her around in a circle.
“You don’t want me to do that to you, do you?” George asked, raising an eyebrow at Harry.
“Nah,” Harry snorted, shaking his head. A few bits of hair popped out of the hold of the gel he’d pressed them down with. It made him look more like himself, more like the Harry that George knew well. “Rather you didn’t, to be honest.”
“Oi, you’re supposed to ask if I’d like that now,” George said, poking Harry in the ribs with the point of his elbow. “It’s chivalrous, or some rot.”
Harry fixed him with a deadpan look, though the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. “Did you want to be twirled, George?”
“Yeah, alright,” George said brightly. “If you insist. Let me get my sparkly heels out first though.”
Harry let out a loud bark of laughter, clapping his hand over his mouth to muffle the noise.
George grinned at him and turned on his heel, completing a full rotation. His head felt a little woozy when he stopped, but that might have been thanks to Harry’s bright smile being solely fixed on him. “Shall we?” he asked, inclining his head towards the portrait door.
Harry nodded, his smile not faltering.
George felt a pang of sympathy when he caught proper sight of Ron as they all made their way down to the Great Hall as a group. His robes really were bloody hideous; the lace was wholly unnecessary. If he didn’t know better, he’d think their mum was punishing Ron for carrying on about the whole thing.
The Great Hall wasn’t open when they got down there, so they all milled about in the Entrance Hall, glancing at everyone else’s robes and silently judging them on their choice of date.
Well, that was what George assumed everyone was doing. His voice had been caught in his throat since they’d stepped out of the common room and he remembered that everyone was going to see him and Harry together. Everyone was going to talk about it and comment on it and there’d be pictures taken and he had half a mind to just say he was Fred. People were already starting to stare, though he doubted that they knew he was with Harry yet. It wasn’t all that odd for the two of them to be seen together, after all.
Harry rested his back against the wall over by the main staircase, his body half concealed by a suit of armour. George wanted to make a joke, felt like he probably should do it to lighten the mood again, that Harry probably expected it of him, but his words kept getting caught in his throat. Harry looked awfully, unfairly good in his dress robes. He kept looking down at the floor and shuffling his feet, so obviously trying to blend into the background and not be seen.
George leaned against the wall next to him, putting his body between Harry and the majority of the crowd. “Alright?”
“Alright,” Harry nodded. “Just … there’s a bloody lot of people here, isn’t there?”
George shrugged. “A lot of bloody nobodies, that’s who.”
Harry gave him an appreciative smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nobodies who’ll be staring at me as I cock up the dance in a bit.”
“Sorry, mate, but have you seen me?” George asked. He waved his hand at himself and wiggled his eyebrows. “They’ll all be so mesmerised by my shocking good looks that they won’t even notice you. Bit full of yourself to think otherwise.” That succeeded in pulling a proper smile from Harry, though he still looked a bit green in the face. “Besides,” George said, tilting his head towards Harry. “I’ll lead.”
Harry leaned in towards him slightly, his eyes going a little glassy. George’s eyes dropped down to his mouth without meaning to, watching as Harry’s lips parted under his gaze.
McGonagall’s voice cut through the din of the crowd and the roaring in George’s ears.
“Oh fuck,” Harry muttered as she called the Champions to line up beside her.
George placed a hand on Harry’s bicep and squeezed gently. “It’ll be alright,” he said, giving Harry what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “If it’s shite, at least it’s only for a few hours.”
In truth, he was a little nervous himself. He wasn’t all that bothered about being looked at, but he preferred for it to be as a result of a funny joke he’d made, or appreciation for a good prank he’d managed to pull off; dancing was another matter, as were pictures for The Prophet. They’d cause a stir when they walked in; everyone would be expecting Harry to have some pretty girl on his arm, not George.
People would stare and it might be uncomfortable, but it would be worth it, George hoped. If he got to sit down and have a proper chat with Harry, got to dance around with him a bit and make him smile and laugh, it would be worth it.
The doors of the Great Hall were thrown open and the crowd began to file in, a mass of sparkly dresses and poorly knotted ties and coiffed hair held together by an ocean sized tub of Sleekeazy’s.
“Uh,” Harry said, eyes widening as he stared at something over George’s shoulder.
“Oh, you both look so handsome,” Hermione cried. She leaned around George in a cloud of flowery perfume to wrap her arms around Harry.
“Ta,” George said, throwing an arm around her shoulders when she released a baffled looking Harry. “Now, who do we need to hex if they don’t keep their hands to themselves tonight?”
Hermione giggled, her cheeks going pink. “Viktor’s been lovely, no hexes needed.”
George’s eyes widened along with Harry’s as they shared a shocked look. “Well thank Merlin for that. Can’t say I’d be winning that fight. Not even Belby’d be dumb enough to take those odds.”
Krum did look well bloody pleased with himself, George noted. He’d just have to hope that Fred was sufficiently distracted by the shininess of Angelina’s dress and wouldn’t attempt to take up that bet himself. He didn’t much fancy the pair of them having their arses handed to them by Krum in the middle of the Ball.
The doors to the Great Hall opened again and McGonagall waved in Cedric and Cho, both with wide smiles plastered on their faces.
George offered an arm to Harry as Fleur Delacour – he could almost see Ron’s tears from the other room – and Roger Davies walked out of sight and into the Hall. Harry took it with ease, looping his arm through George’s and shooting him a small smile. He apparently paid no mind to the optics of George leading him around, despite Harry being the Champion. George suspected that Harry wouldn’t mind being led about a bit in more respects than just the big dance that they’d have to do; he'd likely prefer that George take the lead on directing them where to go and saying hello to people and telling the reporters to piss off as well. That he could do.
Everyone did indeed stare when they walked into the Hall, as was expected. There were quite a few open mouths and wide eyes that followed them as they walked, which George took a not so small amount of pride in. Harry’s hold on his arm tightened, his body pressing closer to George’s side.
The Great Hall was absolutely stunning. George wasn’t the type to notice that sort of rot, but even he found himself gaping as they made their way past the rows of tables with groups of students sat around them. There were twinkling lights everywhere, clustered against the outer walls and floating through the air just a few feet above their heads. Everything was coated in a layer of silver, as though a modified snowstorm had blown through the room a few hours prior. The clouds that moved across the charmed ceiling were nearly obscured by shiny strands of ivy and overflowing bunches of holly.
He wondered if Fred had gotten the chance to hang up the joke mistletoe yet or if Filch had made him turn out his pockets before he’d stepped into the Hall. He made a mental note to ask Fred about it; best to avoid the mistletoe lest he get roped into a very awkward situation with a random student or worse – be forced to have his first snog with Harry in front of a cheering crowd.
He caught Fred’s eye as they approached the head table, Harry’s arm still gripping his like a vice. Fred winked dramatically and pretended to swoon, nearly falling off his chair in the process. George flipped him two fingers before quickly tucking his hand into the pocket of his robes upon hearing McGonagall loudly clearing her throat at a decibel that was somehow above that of the music.
George couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he watched Roger pull out Fleur’s chair for her and hand her a linen napkin to put on her lap.
“Merlin alive,” he muttered in Harry’s ear as they finally reached the head table. “Reckon he thinks he’ll get a snog if he does that?”
Harry shrugged. “He might?”
George fought the sudden urge to pull Harry’s chair out and test the theory. He was more than capable of sitting down without help. As was Hermione, though she looked rather pleased when Krum helped her with it.
The food appeared as soon as the two of them sat down, mountains of it piled so high the plates looked ready to topple over.
“Oh, wow,” Harry said, grabbing for a piece of what George thought might be quiche, though the bright green and red spots on it made it difficult to tell.
“Odds on you finishing that whole tray,” George said, nodding towards the floating stack of macarons.
“You’re on,” Harry said, snatching a purple one out of the air.
The dinner portion of the night seemed to be going quite well. Though they were sharing the head table with the professors, they’d all sequestered themselves down one end as far from the students as possible. They seemed to be going quite hard on a cauldron of some white frothy stuff that George was going to do his best to get his hands on before the night was up.
Everyone was in rather high spirits and George quickly found himself relaxing into the conversation. It wasn’t a difficult task, given that it revolved nearly entirely around Quidditch; the table really was drastically overpopulated with players. He discussed plays with Krum, teased Roger and Cho about Ravenclaw’s miserable prospects for the next season, and raved about Harry’s win rate as a Seeker versus Cedric’s, even getting him to agree to a friendly game at the Burrow over the summer.
Harry and Hermione seemed content to whisper to each other, their heads bent close together as they spoke in quick, hushed tones. Harry kept slipping his hand into his pocket, George noticed. He did it over and over every few minutes.
George leaned in and tapped Harry’s knee, inclining his head when Harry turned towards him. “Hope you’re not keeping any Firewhisky in your pocket. Rule breaking isn’t allowed, you know.”
Harry swallowed, his eyes dropping to rest elsewhere on George’s face, somewhere below his eyes. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
George felt his eyes widen. “Bloody hell, do you actually have some in there?”
“No,” Harry said. His cheeks had gone a little red. “Just something for luck, alright?”
“Luck?” George repeated, raising his eyebrows. “We’ve just done Felix Felicis in Potions, have you gone and snagged some from Snape’s stores then?”
“No,” Harry groaned. “Bloody hell, it’s the present you gave me, alright?”
“The snowflake?” George asked, as though he’d ever given Harry anything else.
“Yeah,” Harry said, looking almost chided. “You were right, it did make me less nervous to use it. Thanks again for that. It was really nice.”
“Yeah, course,” George said. He cleared his throat and stuffed his face with a macaron before he could say anything stupid.
“Does that mean I win the odds if you’ve eaten something off the tray?” Harry asked.
“If you like,” George said. “You’re alright to lose to.”
Harry shifted closer and opened his mouth but was cut off by an incredibly unwanted presence heaving themselves down into Hermione’s vacated chair.
“Oh, bugger off,” George muttered, sending what he hoped was a withering glare Percy’s way.
“Hello, Percy,” Harry said politely.
“Hello, Harry,” Percy nodded. “George. Isn’t this interesting.”
“See, the table actually got a whole lot less interesting since you turned up,” George said, only half joking. Percy could clearly tell, given the narrowing of his eyes. “Been to see Mum and Dad recently? Reckon not.”
Percy ignored him and proceeded to monopolise his date, dragging Harry into what appeared to be a very boring conversation. Much to George’s amusement it seemed to be fairly one-sided; Harry had never been Percy’s biggest fan. It was another of the things that George liked most about him. Percy wouldn’t be showing up in Harry’s snowflake anytime soon, that was for sure.
After a few minutes of an eyewatering discussion on traditional Ministry policy, Harry turned his body fully towards George and pointed at the flower that was pinned to the front of his robes, on the left side of his chest.
“At Muggle dances the bloke is supposed to give his date a flower, you know.”
“Ah,” George said. “Not up with those customs, I’m afraid. You’ll have to make do with a glass of pumpkin juice, I reckon.”
Harry leaned towards George’s chest to peer at the flower. “It’s not real, is it?”
“Nah,” George grinned. He flicked a finger at the flower and watched as the top spun in a circle, the waxy petals flexing with the movement. “Just something that Fred and I worked on last year. Forgot I still had them in my trunk until the other week.” He glanced at the remnants of the stew in his bowl. “Feast your eyes.” He snapped his fingers in front of Harry’s face. After a few moments, a jet of water shot out of the centre of the flower and into the bowl, landing on a chunk of beef that was protruding from the liquid there.
“Wicked,” Harry grinned.
The stream of water stopped after around five seconds, a few stray droplets flying to the side to dampen the tablecloth.
“You should test it on someone,” Harry said.
George raised his eyebrows. “Offering yourself up as a guinea pig?”
“I wouldn’t hex you if you did but, uh, Hermione helped me with my hair earlier so she might.”
“Ah,” George said, nodding sagely. “Better not then.”
Harry jerked his head to the side towards Percy. He was bragging to a very confused looking Krum about how close he was with the stodgy old Minister, now that he was his assistant.
George considered it for a moment. It would truly make his night if he could hit Percy in the face with a jet of water, but the git had never been able to take a joke. He’d no doubt run crying to the Minister for Magic and get George thrown out of the Ball and sent to bed early. He’d have to read about Harry dancing with Parvati Patil in the paper the next morning as he ate his eggs. It was a sobering thought.
“Nah, not unless I can find cover first.” George looked around, scanning the room for options. “Where’s Ron? He’s due for a jet of water to the face, I reckon.”
Ron was looking rather glum, actually. Despite the exceedingly attractive date on his arm – and really, how he’d managed that George had no idea – he seemed to be trying to bring down the mood of the entire Ball with his scowl. Causing a scene by driving his brother over the edge wouldn’t be his best move – his mum would absolutely murder him if she found out.
“Oh god,” Harry muttered, sliding down further in his chair. “The music’s changing, isn’t it? Bloody hell, please tell me it’s not.”
“Uh,” George said. In truth he’d not paid a lick of attention to the sodding music since walking into the room. “Maybe?”
The blood visibly drained from Harry’s face as McGonagall swanned to the centre of the room and officially opened the dance to the Champions.
George stood up and offered his arm to Harry. “We could still make a run for it if you want?”
Harry swallowed and dragged his eyes up from George’s proffered arm to his face. He looked at him for a moment before setting his jaw and rising to stand. He slipped his arm through George’s and gave him a sharp nod.
George snickered under his breath, smiling wider when Harry shot him a glare. He leaned in close to whisper in Harry’s ear as they made their way to the centre of the room, following behind Fleur in her shockingly tight dress. “I’ve got Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder in my pocket. Say the word and I’ll chuck it at the orchestra.”
They took their places next to the other Champions and the realisation set in for George that he was genuinely going to have to slow dance in front of the entire school and all his professors. He’d not given proper weighting to how truly, incredibly shit that whole scenario was.
“What the fuck do I do with my hands?” Harry hissed, turning to face George.
“Uh,” George said, looking down at him with wide eyes. “You want me to lead, yeah?” He snorted with laughter at the exasperated look that Harry gave him. “Bloody hell, don’t do that. Uh, put them on my shoulders I suppose?”
Harry did, though he still looked moments away from sicking up all over George’s shoes. George realised then just how much Harry was looking up in order to face him. Harry had always been a fair bit shorter than him; he’d just never realised quite how much. He’d always been shorter than Ron too, but Ron had gotten bloody enormous over the past year. Dad loved to joke that he was going to be the tallest in the family just to spite Percy.
The first few notes of the music filtered in and George snapped into action; if he was going to dance in front of the entire school, he was going to do it in a way that didn’t make him look like a complete tit. He dropped his hands to Harry’s waist and gently pulled him to the side, directing him to step to the right. Harry followed, turning his body and shifting his feet when he was directed to. Mostly, anyway, aside from the few times he stepped on George’s feet.
“Sorry,” he hissed, glancing up at George with an apologetic smile.
“’S alright,” George said, trying not to let the pain show on his face. He’d be a good date and smile through it.
“Still got that Instant Darkness Powder?” Harry asked. He adjusted the placement of his hands on George’s shoulders, pressing down more firmly. It made George’s mouth go a little dry and he cursed himself for not bringing his glass of pumpkin juice out onto the dancefloor with him. If he got Harry to angle the flower on his robes for him, he might be able to hit his mouth with it, but he was just as likely to beam Harry in the face with the jet, so probably better not to try.
George smiled weakly, nudging Harry into a spin. “Just say the word.” His hands came back to rest on Harry’s slim waist, right in the slight curve there. His thumbs ghosted over Harry’s hips in a way that seemed almost indecent, despite it not being that way at all.
Harry had been looking down at his feet, trying to get the steps right. As they shuffled to the side, he adjusted his hands again and slipped them behind George’s neck, his thumbs brushing against the nape. When he looked up at George he smiled, and George knew right then and there that he was a bloody lost cause. He hoped to Merlin himself that there weren’t cameras pointed at them at that moment. It would be brilliantly clear to anyone who saw him, in person or splashed across the front page of The Prophet tomorrow morning, that he was so painfully, obviously gone on Harry bloody Potter.
Him and every girl in Hogwarts, naturally. Truly, no pressure at all.
“Oh, wow,” Harry whispered, almost too quietly for George to hear.
“Is that the word?” George asked, scrambling for any bit of brain that he had left. “Should I drop the Powder?”
“Nah.” Harry grinned and tightened his hold on the back of George’s neck, his fingers pressing against the skin. “I think I just started to have a good time, believe it or not.”
“I did promise that, didn’t I?” George directed Harry into another spin. The bright colour of Hermione’s dress caught his eye as he rotated his wrist to turn Harry. She had her head tipped back as she laughed, loud and bright over the sound of the orchestra.
He couldn’t find it in himself to be nervous anymore. Harry was looking up at him and smiling softly and pressing his hands to the back of George’s neck firmly enough to tug him down a little. He knew he’d dance in front of a million extra people in order to keep that look on Harry’s face, that wide-eyed open thing that made it seem like George had hung the fucking moon rather than just spun him around a few times and shot a bit of water out of a stupid joke flower.
“Regretting your decision to have me as your date yet?” George asked, tightening his hold on Harry’s waist.
“Nah,” Harry said. “Should have done it sooner.” He blinked up at George, a faraway look in his eyes. A few more of his curls had escaped the hold of the gel, sticking up on the top. They bobbed as Harry moved.
The song ended far too soon, the sound of the orchestra trailing off as the dancing pairs completed their last rotation. Out of the corner of his eye, George saw Fleur and Roger take a bow. He was fairly sure that Cedric and Cho were doing the same thing on his other side, but he only had eyes for Harry.
He’d heard of the phrase ‘tunnel vision’ before; his mum loved to use it when discussing him and Fred with the other mothers at her sewing club. She’d said the two of them got an idea in their heads and focused on it so intently that they couldn’t see, or think about, or do anything else. He suddenly understood what that meant because Merlin himself couldn’t have made him look away from Harry in that moment.
Hermione, however, was more persistent than Merlin.
“Harry, we did it, oh my gosh,” she shrieked, barrelling into George’s side and knocking his hands off Harry’s waist. “I knew you’d end up enjoying yourself, wasn’t that such fun?”
Other people were rushing onto the dancefloor as the music picked up in tempo, the band decidedly not an orchestra any longer.
“Is that the bloody Weird Sisters?” George shouted, spinning around.
It was indeed the Weird Sisters. Their frontman was bellowing the lyrics to one of their hit songs that George had heard many times, the sound of it filtering from under Charlie’s bedroom door until the wee hours when their mum threatened to blast his door clean off the hinges if he didn’t shut it off.
Kenneth clapped him on the back then, throwing an arm around George’s shoulders and handing him a fresh glass of pumpkin juice. “Real nice show you put on out there. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I’m full of surprises,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Are we dancing, or are you just going to stand there and let your date realise she’s made the wrong choice in bringing you?”
Alicia laughed and grabbed for his and Kenneth’s hands, tugging them further into the crowd. George turned and grabbed for Harry’s arm, dragging him along with them. Harry ended up dancing more with Alicia than with George, but he looked so bloody giddy as he did it that George didn’t mind one bit. The songs rotated through, switching to something with a fast tempo that George couldn’t have identified for a hundred Galleons, entirely focused on Harry as he was.
Fred and Angelina turned up after a bit, using their elbows to fight through the crush of the crowd.
“Oi, oi,” Fred shouted, throwing himself at George and sending them both stumbling back a few steps. “Well done, Georgie,” he whispered, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze. “You should have seen his face. Mum’s gonna cry when she sees the pictures.”
“Hopefully not on the parchment this time. I could do without another soggy letter.”
Fred seemed to take it upon himself to outdo George in the dancing department by twirling Harry around again and again until he was dizzy enough to need to hold onto George’s shoulder for support. He gasped as he laughed, open mouthed and smiling, his glasses askew and his hair a complete lost cause.
Harry leaned in towards him, his shoulder digging into George’s chest as he spoke directly into his ear to be heard over the music. “I should probably go check on Ron. Come with me?”
There was little George wanted to do less than check on his moody younger brother, but needs must.
Ron was easy enough to find once they managed to fight their way through the crowd. He was sat at one of the tables with his date, both of them looking more than a little put out. Harry sank down in the chair next to Ron and ran a hand through his hair, sweeping the curls off his forehead.
“Might go grab us some Butterbeers,” George said, registering the get-the-fuck-awayness of Ron’s body language. “Coming?” he asked Padma.
Padma was indeed keen to get away, practically throwing herself at George and clinging to his arm as he directed her towards the refreshment table. She was alright to talk to once you got past the giggling and the reddened cheeks and the dramatic batting of the eyelashes. He left her with a group of her mates and a fresh bottle of Butterbeer, satisfied that he’d done his good deed for the night. He did tell her that he’d inform Ron of her whereabouts, though he doubted that either she or Ron would care to do anything with that information.
He got roped into a conversation about the validities of Valyrian root with Kenneth on his way back. The bloke couldn’t let up on studying for one night, apparently getting spurred on by the various bushels of Herbological goodness (aka holly) that were hanging about the place. George cupped Harry’s Butterbeer in his hand and took a few swigs, resigning himself to not being able to get back to his date for a good while. You couldn’t stop Kenneth once he got on the international plants train, it was impossible.
“Bloody buggering hell,” Harry muttered, suddenly appearing next to him. “Hide me, for Merlin’s sake. Ron and Hermione have gotten into it and they’re both on the bloody warpath.” His eyes locked onto the bottle in George’s hand. “Is that for me?”
“Yes and no. I was parched, so we’ll have to share.”
“You’ve not spiked it, have you?” Harry eyed the bottle warily.
“Nah, I’d tell you if I had.”
Harry nodded and took a swig, his eyes darting about the crowd.
George snorted, shaking his head. “Forget about Ron and Hermione, they’ll figure it out eventually.”
Harry looked up at him curiously. “Figure out what?
George tugged the bottle from his hand and took a drink, a grin on his face.
“Alright,” Harry said, sounding almost a little breathless. “You promised me a laugh, so I want a laugh.”
“I’m sure Ken’s still got that mirror in his pocket if you wanted to find him and give looking in that a go?”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “That was terrible. Fred comes up with the jokes, does he?”
Kenneth whistled, long and low. George had completely forgotten the bloke was still there.
“Bugger off,” George hissed, giving Kenneth a shove. “Go find your own date.”
“Hermione reckons there’s someone lurking over by the pumpkin juice,” Harry suggested, shuffling his feet. “Might be an alright place to start, if the professors haven’t gotten there already.”
George linked his arm through Harry’s and nodded, giving the head of the flower a flick so that it spun. “Lead the way.”
There was indeed a bloke, some Slytherin Seventh Year that George had never spoken to, lurking around the pumpkin juice looking properly bloody shifty. If his aim was to blend in and not attract attention he was failing miserably. They managed to lure him into a false sense of security by having Harry offer him an autograph, a cover story so farfetched that George nearly laughed right in Harry’s face when he suggested it.
The bloke bought it hook, line, and sinker, scrabbling for a piece of parchment in his pockets. He continued to search even as water dripped from his face, apparently completely unconcerned with his newly sodden state.
McGonagall fixed George with a warning look when she came over to drag the bloke away, muttering about tampering with the school-supplied refreshments.
George had a hunch that Fred had already spiked the pumpkin juice long before anyone else gotten there, but he wasn’t about to say so.
“It’s properly bloody hot in here,” Harry said, pushing the sleeves of his robes up.
“Doors are open,” George said, nodding towards the Entrance Hall. “Want to sit outside for a bit?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, giving George a shy grin that made his stomach swoop.
It wasn’t strictly necessary to slip his hand into Harry’s to lead him through the crowd towards the door, but it was certainly practical. Harry’s hand was warm and a little clammy and his fingers kept twitching slightly, like he wasn’t sure how tightly he was allowed to hold.
Outside the air was bitingly cold, a hush hanging over everything as it often did when there was a fresh snowfall. Their warm breaths made little clouds in the air as they walked, their shoes crunching on the slurry.
They stopped at a set of steps not too far from the main entrance, George sinking down onto the top one and letting out a muttered swear at the feeling of the frigid stone. It was impossible to see properly into the castle from outside, all the windows having fogged up from the temperature difference. The light from the windows was blurred, yellow spilling out onto the stone pathways of the courtyard.
Harry sat down next to him, stretching his legs out and letting his robes spread out on the steps. He tilted his head back to look up at the sky, curls flopping over his forehead. There weren’t many stars visible through the thin layer of clouds, but a few of the fairy lights had broken free from the confines of the Great Hall to mill about in the courtyard. They mixed with the few flakes of snow that were still falling, twirling through the air and getting caught on the light breeze.
Harry’s hand had gone from clammy to cold against George’s own. He shivered and shuffled slightly closer to George, away from the freezing stone wall.
Letting go of Harry’s hand wasn’t great, but it was a necessary evil if George wanted to put an arm around him, which he most definitely did. Harry went all quiet and still when he did it, and he got a soft little smile on his face that he tried to hide by turning it away from George.
“Probably shouldn’t stay out here too long. Wouldn’t want our Champion getting his fingers frozen off before the next Task, would we?”
Harry tipped his head towards George, leaning it against his shoulder. The touch of it was light, Harry not putting the entirety of his weight there. “It’s nice out here, I think.”
George hummed and raised his eyebrows teasingly. “You’d rather be outside freezing your nads off than dancing up a storm in there with the adoring public?”
Harry tilted his head up, directing the full force of that knee-sweeping smile at George. “You know I would.”
There was so much that nobody knew about Harry Potter; so much that George himself didn’t yet know. He was eager to find out exactly what each of those things were.
Harry went quiet again as they sat there, though he kept shuffling closer to George and leaning in a little more each time. George pretended not to notice, sure that was the gentlemanly thing to do, but fuck if he knew, really. Come to think of it, Harry had seemed to rather appreciate his directness last time.
George cleared his throat, intending to make a joke about their proximity, some naff thing about Ron and Fred both being jealous, but Harry beat him to it with something that was certainly better.
“Your robes look really nice,” he said. He was fiddling with one of George’s sleeves, as though comparing fabric types.
“Yours do too. Everyone was looking at you, you know. They’re all properly jealous of me.” George wiggled his eyebrows but was floored by the intensity of the look that Harry shot him.
“I don’t really care about everyone else, to be honest.”
“So,” George said, tilting his head back to watch the fairy lights dart across the sky. “What does the great Harry Potter, rescuer of children and slayer of dragons, care about?”
“Come off it,” Harry said, though there was laughter in his tone. “I’ve been thinking rather a lot.”
“Ah, I can see why that would be noteworthy. Not something you do often, eh?”
“Well, Hermione did help me to sort it all out.”
“Ah, should have guessed.”
“Can I keep going?” Harry asked, elbowing him in the ribs. “Or are you going to keep taking the piss?”
George mimed locking his lips and tucking the fake key into the front pocket of Harry’s robes. It was probably a mildly idiotic image, but Harry still smiled anyway.
“Right,” Harry said, nodding to himself. “I was wondering if we could sit together sometimes at breakfast or tea.”
“We already do that most days.” George was well familiar, given that he couldn’t stop staring at Harry over the scones half the time and looking like a right tit as he did it, according to Fred.
Harry turned towards him slightly, a frankly terrifying level of concentration on his face. “But I don’t want to do it because of Ron, I want to sit together because you want to sit with me.”
“You’re a bit late on that one; that’s already the reason I’m there. Drives Fred up the wall having to listen to the Second Years natter on down that end of the table.”
“Oh,” Harry said, his mouth twitching up at the corners. “Well … brilliant.”
“Anything else you were thinking about?” George couldn’t help but smile at the apparent joy that was plastered across Harry’s face at the prospect of knocking elbows with him as they ate their Yorkshire pudds.
Harry, apparently emboldened, soldiered on. “It might be alright to, uh, talk a bit more. We could go down for a walk by the lake sometimes and you could help me study for my O.W.L.s, if you wanted.”
“Ah,” George said, brushing one of Harry’s curls behind his ear and feeling his cheeks crinkle against his knuckles in response. “So you’re only interested in me for my brain. I should have known.”
Harry’s cheeks went bright red, the skin hot under the pad of George’s thumb. “I, uh …”
“Don’t strain yourself, old bean. How about we start in the morning?”
“What’s in the morning?” Harry asked, his voice almost a whisper.
“Breakfast is in the morning. We’ll sit next to each other and share a bit of toast if you want, and I’ll hex Ron and Fred and anyone else who makes a joke about it.” He could picture it so clearly, his knee bumping against Harry’s under the table, shared smiles in the crisp light of the morning. It was almost too good to be true. “And then maybe we could go down by the lake and sit and talk about Quidditch for a bit. Reckon I could get you in on the betting league if you wanted, but you might have to study for it first.”
Harry smiled, a wide, almost blinding thing. “Yeah. That sounds brilliant.”
George blinked a few times, his head going a bit fuzzy as Harry’s smile slowly faded and was replaced with an expression that George couldn’t quite decipher.
The snow was falling a little more rapidly now, flakes catching in Harry’s curls and standing out against the dark strands. George flicked at one, succeeding only in having it melt against his fingernail.
“I don’t really know how to do this,” Harry said. His eyes followed George’s face as he tilted it to the side to watch as a bit of snow fell onto the shoulder of Harry’s robes.
“Do what?”
“Are you supposed to talk about it first? I think you’re supposed to just do it.”
“Haven’t the foggiest,” George said. His breath caught in his throat when he realised that Harry was a fair bit closer than he had been before. His face was tilted up towards George’s as they sat there on the cold stone steps, their sides pressed together.
The tip of Harry’s nose was red, just as it had been when they’d had that snowball fight what seemed like ages ago. George had wanted to press the pad of his thumb to it and see if it warmed. He did it then, covering Harry’s skin with his own.
Harry’s lips parted in surprise at the touch, his eyes fixed on George’s face.
“I thought about doing that,” George said, in way of explanation.
“I thought about doing this,” Harry said, and then his lips were on George’s, soft and closed and pressing. He gasped, a tiny quiet thing, when George moved his arm from around Harry’s shoulders to slip around his back, tugging him in closer. The tip of his nose was cold against George’s cheek, like a little spot of snow that had fallen there and refused to melt.
George pulled back and nodded to himself, a grin spreading across his face. “Is this a bad time to check that you still know which male Weasley I am?”
Harry grabbed a bit of snow from beside the steps and threw it, hitting George square in the chest.
“That wasn’t an answer,” George said, brushing another bit of snow off Harry’s shoulder.
“The only one that wants to snog me. There’s your answer.”
“I dunno,” George said, clicking his tongue. “Percy was giving you eyes over the stew, don’t think I didn’t see it.”
Harry stuck out his tongue and pretended to gag. “And Hermione says you’re a romantic.”
“Sorry, she says what?” George asked, laughing loudly.
“Forget I said that, Christ,” Harry muttered, his cheeks going red.
“Nah, tell me what else Hermione’s been saying. Seems a bit interesting, doesn’t it?”
“She, uh, she just reckons that you’re, you know, interested, if you want to call it that. You know, in me.”
“Well,” George said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I did agree to come here with you and probably get in that rag of a paper and let all my friends tease me about it. I even let Fred do all the pumpkin juice spiking and the mistletoe hanging so that I could be available to twirl you around a bit. So, yeah, I reckon that’s a fair thing to say.”
“Wicked.”
George snorted and shook his head at Harry. The tip of his nose wasn’t all that cold anymore when George leaned in to press their lips together again, a soft and slow thing that made his stomach swoop.
“We could start with the morning,” he said against Harry’s lips, his breath washing over them. “Or we could start from now?”
Harry’s eyelids fluttered open. He stared at George for a moment, eyes wide and searching. “Yeah,” he said, eyelids sliding closed again. “Right now sounds brilliant.”