sophiemass

Early summer, and you had been nursing a cold from the sudden temperature change. Your mother was already sleeping after a day of attending to a toddler and a sick child. But your throat was dry, and the glass your mum had left in your bed before she tucked you in was empty already. So you had decided to go downstairs and fill it again.

Despite the shivers running down your spine and the cold sweat that spread through your whole body, you managed to reach the kitchen, open the refrigerator and weakly tried to take the jug of water out of it.

You were unable to; you needed help.

It was hot all over, and the night was much too obscure for you to really see anything besides what the moonlight showed you, yet the distinct rustle of voices coming out of your father’s studio drew you toward the room.

Not knowing why, when you stubbed your little toe against the edge of the wall, you didn’t utter a single sound, clamping your hand over your mouth to prevent the wail of pain from escaping your lips. It seemed like he was on an important call.

Just in that moment, it was when you heard it. Your father’s tender voice speaking over the phone.

That tender voice he reserved only for your mother.

But he wasn’t talking to her, couldn’t have been talking to her. You checked; she was asleep. So, if your father wasn’t speaking with your mum, with whom was he speaking so lovey-dovey? He called that other person 'love' and talked about meeting soon and missing her.

Tears rimmed your lashes as you heard the whole conversation behind the heavy, ajar door where a clandestine encounter was being agreed upon.

You had seen it in a Muggle show, and the neighbours had split up because of the same thing.

Father had decided to wrong your mother.

Three years later, after actively avoiding thinking of that, of trying to erase that memory, of thinking of it as a feverish dream, you had seen it with your very own eyes. A girl's trip with Nessa and Heidi to the Muggle shopping mall had shown you your father kissing another woman while he was carrying hundreds of bags for her.

Then came the confession. 

He had never loved your mother; he had gambled with his own love life because he had been sick even when he was a wee teenager, and even if he won at the time, in the long run, he ended up losing tremendously.

Marrying your mother for the sake of winning some galleons had been the worst thing he had done. 

His words, not yours.

All the emotions you hadn’t felt in a long while hit you all at once. Pain, betrayal, that dull ache that settled on your bones as you watched your father splurge money they didn’t have on a younger woman.

It was a pain that you had promised yourself you would never feel.

Not because you knew what was going to happen in your life, but because you believed you would be able to manage your relationships correctly. 

Then, as you turned your head to look, you saw George kissing Jane Williams.

And everything came back like a wave that crashed against the shore; you were thirteen again, watching as your father left your mother for another woman yet again while she worked overtime to pay off his gambling debts.

Not even thirty minutes ago, you two had been inside that goddamned closet, and he had held you with such a heated force it made your knees weak and your pulse quicken. The way he had looked at you had been pure, unadulterated desire.

You had felt it.

Love hadn’t been what bloomed in that closet, but something indeed had bloomed.

And now he was kissing that Ravenclaw girl, holding her with the same hands that had cradled your cheeks with barely contained emotions. His hands on her waist, her hands on his shoulders.

She, whom you recognised as one of the groupies Fred had once told you about, was touching him everywhere, not caring that they were in public or that it was extremely vulgar to touch somebody’s… penis in front of a large crowd.

It wasn’t contained or tentative. It was filth. It was disgusting, nauseating, even. Jane kissed him with the hunger of a vulture, like a bitch in heat. And he didn’t stop her. 

If this was a joke, it was a really bad one. Disregarding your feelings completely.

Feelings that only today you accepted you still had for George.

Fingers went numb as you cradled the small box inside the hidden pocket of your skirt, chin wobbling as your eyes traced every movement of the bodies in front of you.

You hadn’t even given him your gift.

No, you weren’t going to cry. It was a silly crush; you had said it before. Yet, as your cheeks turned red and your heart felt heavier and the knot in your throat got tighter with every breath, you couldn’t help but want to bolt away.

“What the fuck?” mumbled Fred, tightening his grip on your shoulders.

Closing your eyes, you sighed, swallowing hard as your brain worked as fast as it could to process the image. There had to be a reason why. There must be a reason.

Wasn’t he the one who clearly said ‘no side romances’? Wasn’t he the one who said, regardless of the circumstances, they should wait until the end of the bet if they wanted to date other people? Wasn’t he the one who got angry at any mere suggestion of you flirting with other people?

“Don’t curse,” you mumbled, more out of a reflex than anything. 

George’s lips were moving out of sync, much too robotic. Oddly stiff. Not like any other kiss you and he had shared. Nothing like the way he held you.

A very fishy thing was happening right now.

And you needed to find out what it was before Fred punched his twin, which was about to happen.

Like right now.

Fred charged against George and yanked him out of the embrace. “What the fuck are you doing?”

One thing George had mentioned in passing was that Fred hated cheaters, which would explain why he was so angry right now. Just, you never thought he would apply it so rigorously to his own twin, either. 

“Get off me.” George shoved Fred away and grabbed Jane’s hand. “Get away, you coconut dundyhair!” 

George’s eyes, usually sharp yet contradictorily so soft when they looked at you, were weirdly unfocused, filled with rage as he stared at his twin. He looked exactly like your brother under a heavy dose of anaesthesia after he had undergone peritonitis surgery.

Yet, he had used that ridiculous misremembering of one of Captain Haddock’s curses, the ones you had taught him after you kept telling him not to curse, even when his eyes didn’t recognise you.

Such incongruence made your skin crawl.

Fred was about to grab George by the collar when you stepped between them and grabbed your boyfriend’s hand. “George, what is the meaning of this?”

By now, the stares of people were boring holes into the three of them, but neither paid attention. You wanted answers.

Your George would never do any of these things, not after all the work you two had put into their fake relationship working, not after kissing you as he did. 

He could be lots of things, but your George wouldn’t consciously hurt you.

“Are you drunk?” You extended your hand to touch his face, but he dodged you.

George scorned. “Don’t touch me. Can't you see I’m with the love of my life?” He turned to Jane, and his face softened. “You’ll push her away.”

His eyes were glazed, much too gleeful and socially unaware to be true.

By George’s side, Jane was smiling brightly. “Freddie, don’t be jealous; if you want, you can join—”

It was then that you grabbed her arm, digging your nails into her flesh as she let out a pained yowl. “What did you do?”

Fred stopped George before he could touch you, forcefully wrenching him away from Jane’s tight grasp. “You have a girlfriend, you motherfucker.”

“Yes, and that is Jane!” George thrashed in Fred’s grasp, trying to go back to Jane.

“Georgie, please, don’t fight!” The girl said as she tried to shake your hand off her.

In an instant, Angelina had come by your side, and you both stopped her from reaching out to George. “Do you really want us to believe George is cheating? With you?” She said.

“Well, Johnson, he wanted to kiss me!” Jane said calmly, yet the tapping of her foot betrayed her emotions. “Maybe he likes me more.”

But Angelina was having none of it. “You’re a slag; George would rather chop off his dick than kiss you.”

“Willingly,” you added, face flushed with anger. “You spiked him with Amortentia, don’t you?”

“I did not!”

George was fighting against not only Fred, but also Lee and Ron, just to get to where Jane was. His voice was angry, yelling at his brothers to get lost and to let him be, growing more agitated with every step they drove him further away from said girl.

It was like watching a wild animal getting caged; they dragged him away to their dorms, Lee holding one arm and Ron the other, while Fred tried to make his brother see reason. 

“Yes! You drugged him!” you yelled, which only made the girl try to silence you by shoving her hands against your mouth. “What? You’re too ashamed of people finding out you spiked his drink and kissed him unwillingly? That if we didn’t catch him, you would’ve taken him to God knows where to do disgusting things?"

“I wasn’t, I—” She tried to defend herself.

“You want us to believe you were only kissing him? I saw where your hand was, Jane. You gave him Amortentia to have him, even if unwilling. I’m telling Dumbledore!” you yelled, your anger and pain finding a recipient to vent. “You are disgusting.”

You spun, looking in the direction where you could hear George’s breathy, broken screams for Jane. If only you hadn’t gone to the bathroom. What would have happened if Jane had successfully lured him away from the party?

Would George have been able to live with his conscience if Jane had escalated further? You shuddered at the idea.

Jane was deranged, just like every other Quidditch groupie, but you never thought any of them would go so far as to strip someone of their volition to have it their way.

“Well, maybe if you satisfied him enough—”

The common room didn’t quiet down, but your ears heard nothing else.

A breath caught in your throat, and your mind repeated again and again what she said. So outrageous, so wrong in many ways.

She should have seen it coming. 

Your fist connected with Jane’s nose in a matter of seconds; not even Angelina, who had great reflexes, could have been able to stop it. Not like she would have if she saw it.

There was a crack, and then she fell to the ground, yelling in pain as blood started pouring from her nose.

“Jane Williams, by now you must know that the fact that you’re a Ravenclaw doesn’t make you smart.” You crouched down to grasp her hair; nobody tried to stop you. “And here, you’re the dumbest bitch I have ever seen in my life. For your own good, I advise you to stop pulling these little tricks, or next time I won’t stop at a broken nose.”

***

It took you a moment to regain your composure once you had climbed the stairs. The adrenaline from punching Jane slowly started draining from your body, driving away the raging energy that had built up since you saw what you saw.

Inhale, exhale.

Rhythmically, slowly.

Violence was never the option you wanted to resort to, and for some reason, it was the first one your brain always went to when you felt threatened. Your fight or flight response always chose the one that left you feeling bad.

Your mum was a pacifist; she had always tried to make you and your brother understand that fighting was the last resort. And if you did use violence, it had to be for a good cause, not because a girl was insulting you.

Again, you could already hear your mother scolding you just like she did when you pushed your nosey neighbour away when he tried to pull at your pigtails. Just like that, fragments of your mum’s voice yelling at you to stop being problematic started to grow in your head.

But it wasn’t your fault that you were a troublemaker without cause like your father.

Though that voice seemed less like yours and more like your mum’s.

This whole thing was giving you a headache.

You pushed yourself from the wall, took in a deep breath and started walking towards George’s dorm. From outside, even behind closed doors, George’s voice could be heard. Loud and clear, full of sick reverence, spewing nonsense about Jane.

“I love her; I’m going to marry her because we are destined to be together,” said your boyfriend as you stepped inside the room.

Instantly, all the faces in the room turned to look at you, even George, who was being held down by Ron and Lee while Fred rummaged through his trunk, mumbling something about antidotes and, for some reason, cursing Ludo Bagman.

“There is your girlfriend, George! Remember?” Ginny said, getting close to him and grabbing his face to make him look at you.

Still in an Amortentia-induced haze, he squinted his eyes at you as if he were trying to remember something but couldn’t quite recall what it was.

“She’s not,” he finally said. “My girlfriend will only be Jane, or I’ll kill myself.”

You lifted a brow. “Dramatic much, Georgie?”

Deciding not to get too close to him, you went towards Fred. “Do you have an antidote?”

“We had it,” Fred said, clicking his tongue. “Before Mum threw all the products from the shop away and that nonce Bagman decided to fucking trick us during the Quidditch Cup."

“What shop?”

He paused for a second, then tilted his head to have a better look at you. “George didn’t tell you?”

“Should he have?” You cocked a brow.

“Well, I thought he did; you’re his girl after all.”

“She’s not my girl!” George yelled, trying to free himself from the grasp of his brother and friend.

“Nobody taught you it is bad education butting into others’ conversations?” You shot back, hands on your hips.

Fred went back to his trunk. “It’s our joke shop. After he regains his consciousness, ask him to explain.”

“I am conscious!” George yelled louder. “You just don’t want to see it! It’s my heart; I’m in love with her!”

“You don’t even know her!” Ginny rolled her eyes.

“That’s the point of dating her! So I can get to know her and marry her!”

“Stop speaking like that in front of your girlfriend, mate! You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lee, just like Ginny, was starting to get irritated by the nonsense.

“She’s not my girlfriend!” George said, even more pressed than before.

You were about to tell everybody to stop saying that amortentia was making him think and believe he was in love with Jane and that no matter how hard they tried to persuade him otherwise, unless the effects passed, his love was the new reality.

But just when you were opening your mouth, George was faster.

“It was all fake!”

You moaned in horror.

“We planned every—”

Right when he was just revealing their secrets, Ginny, like their saviour, slapped him.

That shut him up quickly.

He started whining, begging her to explain why she would do something like that when she knows that Jane likes his face.

All the air came back to your lungs, and the micro heart attack you were about to have was stopped by the girl’s fierce palm that left a red mark on George’s cheek.

Your scalp started itching, though.

There was a reason you liked Ginny; her quick thinking and action were one of them, so you were glad she knew everything that was happening. A slap like that, coming from her, could mean plenty of things.

And as it seemed, nobody questioned why she did it, probably assuming she wanted to shut her brother up so he wouldn’t break your heart.

Late.

Like, four years late.

And probably like thirty minutes late, too.

In that instant, Fred grabbed you by the elbow, making you crouch down next to him.

“Look. I have an idea.” He mumbled, showing you a pink vial while the others were berating George. “This is Amortentia.” He opened it.

You don’t know what he smelt, but it made the harsh edges on his face disappear.

Understandably, you could already feel you were back home by only a shallow whiff of the potion: hot chocolate, quince pie and… a tinge of that firework scent you always smelt on George’s clothes, no matter how clean they were.

You cleared your throat. “What’s your idea?”

Fred stole a glance towards George before looking back at you. “You will feed him with it.”

Blinking, you squinted your eyes. “Why?”

“Work with me, yeah? It’s a theory; I don’t know if it's true. The effect of this Amortentia should cancel out the effects of Jane’s one way or another.” He bobbed his head. “If he is already in love with you, then if you feed him a love potion, in theory it shouldn’t work because the love is already there, thus cancelling Jane’s, right?"

“Right.” But you elongated the diphthong, not completely convinced.

“Then, if he is not in love with you yet, then all that energy..." He pointed to George with his head. "It will be directed at you, his girlfriend.”

“And if neither of them happens and we end up poisoning him?” You took the Amortentia out of his hands and looked at it closely.

“Then I have a small piece of Bezoar, the last one that we have.” He lifted his other hand, showing a small, rock-like thing covered by a handkerchief. “I would feed him with this now, but Amortentia is not a venom, so he isn’t poisoned; therefore, it wouldn’t work on him right now.”

You raised both brows, impressed. “Wow. You’re actually not a dunce.”

“Of course not. Why would you think that?” He feigned indignation.

“Remind me how many T’s you got in your OWLs."

He rolled his eyes and pushed you away. “Go put that into something edible.”

“Water?” you asked. “Potions is my weakest subject.”

“I guess it works with water.” He sighed.

Quickly, from a nightstand of one of the boys’ beds, you picked up a jug of water and filled one glass next to it. You dropped the whole contents of the potion inside it, and, in an instant, it turned pinkish, with bubbles exploding and colliding against one another.

Now, how could you give it to him without him rejecting it?

There were a few things you could do, but your brain conjured the only one you should avoid.

“You lot, hold him steady,” you said, loud and clear, so Lee and Ron heard you above all the ruckus. “Ginny, open his mouth.”

Automatically, the girl grabbed his brother's face and did as you ordered. Her small hand didn’t really measure the force she really had, so George, outnumbered, was rendered helpless, trying to free himself.

He looked at you as if you were He Who Shall Not Be Named himself.

Your chest ached when you saw the way his eyes filled with heated anger and mistrust, and the need to scratch your scalp was getting stronger with every second you spent looking at this George that wasn’t yours.

So, before he could free himself, you got on top of him and covered his eyes.

“This is for your own good.”

You didn’t know if it was.

Slowly, you poured the contents of the glass into his mouth. He resisted at first, so plenty of it ended up soaking his shirt, but once Ginny pinched his nose, he finally swallowed a mouthful of it; he lost all his will to fight.

Uncovering his eyes, the truth was finally revealed

George blinked once, then twice.

“What?”

His eyes, which mere seconds ago were hazy and turbulent blue, regained that tempered ocean colour you loved. The ones that looked at you with gratitude and curiosity rather than strangeness and hate.

The ones that were definitely not crazed with a love potion. Clear blue as the sky, devoid of artificial devotion, looked at you with guilt.

McGonagall very seriously advised them against the use of alcohol, and Flitwick reminded George that he had the orchestral practice tomorrow evening. Yet, as he saw Lee being handed a plastic cup full of straight vodka from a Durmstrang girl, George couldn’t help but wonder how many days of detention they would obtain after the party.

Probably for… till next year.

Fred nursed a bottle of butterbeer in his hands, claiming he needed a clear head if he was going to help you set Nessa up with what he called 'that little snake’. Surprisingly, Lee was the one who had started drinking earlier on, and everyone could see that in the way he was happier and chattier than ever.

Meanwhile, George was waiting for you.

It wasn’t something they had agreed on. He was simply attentive to the door every time someone opened it.

“You look like a lost pup.”

A voice behind him startled him, and when he turned his head a bit, he saw a dolled-up Ginny smirking at him.

“Waiting for your owner, are we?” She sat beside him, smoothing her skirt as she did it.

“Isn’t that skirt too short?” He pointed.

“Your girlfriend picked it up for me this morning.”

The way she had pronounced 'girlfriend' sent shivers down his spine, and it reminded George that Ginny was the only one who knew that you two were pretending to be together. You had told him you had confided that small secret in Ginny, which left him confused because he never thought you and she were that good of friends. Apparently, you two were as thick as thieves.

He rolled his eyes. “Well, then my girlfriend should know you’re too young to wear that kind of skirt.”

“And you’re too old to be playing pretend,” she hissed.

George was about to answer her when a pair of warm hands settled on his eyes, obscuring his vision and filling his senses with the smell of lavender and something smoky, like incense. He didn’t even have to hear your voice to know it was you.

He would recognise you everywhere.

It wasn’t like you used the same perfume every day; just like with your lip balms, you liked to use various scents on your skin. But there was something so characteristic about all your aromas that he could guess which was yours and which weren’t.

Flowers, for example.

Every time he smelt lavender, or jasmine, or roses, he couldn’t help but be taken back to you. His mind filled with thoughts and sensations related to you, adding to his already messed-up feelings.

Were you, just like him, able to recognise him by his scent? Doubtful; he hardly ever remembered to use cologne.

“Who am I?” You asked.

He placed his hands above yours, gently intertwining his fingers with yours.

Not only was it your perfume, but also the length of your fingers and the weight of them against his own. It was your middle finger with that small callus from writing with that Muggle pen for years, and your slightly long nails painted a different colour every week.

Before, he wouldn’t have been able to recognise you by these small things, but after spending almost every free moment he had with you, knowing you, and seeing you, he considered himself an expert on you.

George hummed, smiling as he felt your body pressing against his back. “Angelina?”

“Don’t be cliché," you chuckled.

“You’re the one being cliché.”

He shrugged your hands away before turning and grabbing you by the waist, pulling you onto his lap. By doing so, he had to use a bit of strength to hoist you from behind the backrest.

“Happy birthday,” you mumbled, placing a small kiss on his lips.

Unknowing to you both, Ginny had turned to your group of friends and stared at them with incredulous disgust, which they mirrored.

“I have never in my life seen such a disgusting scene,” Heidi spoke, walking from behind the sofa and stopping near them, palming George on the back, making him wince.

“I did,” you chirped. “When you and Gabe kiss—”

“Daphne and Astoria are here!” Gabriel interrupted you, shoving the two girls forward.

In an instant, Fred had arrived at the scene and plopped next to Ginny. He wasn’t happy, and you could see it in the way his shoulders were tense and his jaw tight.

“Welcome,” he said, not bothering to extend his hands towards the girls, and taking a swing from his butterbeer. 

Ginny, too, wasn’t too happy, but contrary to Fred, she was better at hiding it, greeting the girls with a small smile.

“Happy Birthday," Astoria spoke first, pulling from her pocket two small packages.

“You prepared a gift?” Nessa asked.

“It’s rude to go to a birthday party without a gift.” Daphne shrugged, another one who wasn’t thrilled about the situation.

Heidi huffed. “Great, Daph, now you’re making us look bad.”

George grabbed the package and opened it. It was unnecessary, actually; he didn’t even think half of the people even knew it was their birthday.

Inside, he found a guitar pick.

The weird sister’s guitar pick he had seen plenty of times around Astoria’s neck. 

One day after a rehearsal, he had asked her why she had it around her neck, and the girl had said that her cousin's sister-in-law worked with the Weird Sisters, so it was one of the picks they used, and, apart from being amazed, as a joke, he had said he would steal it someday. 

It looked like he wouldn’t need to.

“Thank you so much, Astoria.” He mumbled, smiling sincerely at the girl. “But I couldn’t—”

She shook her head and turned her head, but George saw her blushing. “Just take it; I’ll ask my cousin for another bigger thing.” 

“Yeah, yeah, thank you,” Fred mumbled, still not happy but not tense anymore.

George peeked over at Fred’s gift and saw a small but fancy-looking gift card belonging to Honey Ducks and something else he hadn’t been able to see before his twin stood up.

Slinging his arm around the sisters’ shoulders, Fred started to drive them away from there. “We have some introductions to make, don’t we? Parade you two around so people don’t freak out if they see little snakes hanging around.”

Quickly, Nessa wished George a happy birthday before grabbing Heidi and Gabe and pulling them to trail behind the other three. And when he turned to see his own sister, she wasn’t there anymore.

“Happy birthday,” you mumbled again, hugging his shoulders.

He raised a brow. “Didn’t you say you prepared a gift?”

“So greedy, do you only want me for the thing I can do?” Your fingers slithered up and grabbed his hair.

“I want you for that… and for matters far more wicked,” he whispered, his voice completely devoid of his usual tone, replaced by a regal and poised one.

You squeezed his hand on his head. “If this is your idea of gentlemanly conduct, sir, I fear for my virtue.”

“What virtue?” he smirked, head tilted and unmoving as he allowed you to be a little rough with him. “You possess none; I have never seen a more vixen-like creature than you.”

“Hey, I’m not.” Pouting, you slapped his back.

George couldn’t help but stare at you. With your face so close, it was hard not to.

Blush crept up his neck to his cheeks when his eyes slowly made a downward path to your lips. They were slightly pink, with a small coat of gloss that just made them look luscious and delicious.

It bothered him a little that there was no scent this time. Part of his routine when he saw you was guessing what flavour you were using, and it made him feel slightly less conscious about looking at your lips.

Now, he had no excuse as to why his eyes lingered so much on them.

“No flavour this time?” Mumbling, his hand lifted to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Wanna guess?”

It was enough for him to close the distance and pull you down for a kiss.

***

“It’s your turn!”

George groaned as Lee pointed at their roommate and told him to spin the bottle.

It was a childish game, very silly. Yet people seemed to be eager to do something with the sexual energy the alcohol brought out in them, because as soon as Fred proposed playing spin the bottle, various other students joined in.

At first, they had tried to play truth or dare between their group of friends, but then everybody refused to do the truths or the dares, which only made you mad and call everybody cowards. George didn’t mention you had decided to drink, too, instead doing the dare Ginny had told you.

The point of that game had been to get Nessa and Daphne to do something as a pair, something romantic you had said earlier on. But after it had failed, Fred had decided to go with what he said would work from the beginning, against your and George’s protests.

Ginny had bailed as soon as it was announced, and you had looked at her with a knowing look; Harry, Ron and Heidi had decided not to play after the first round; Hermione had never played any games.

At first, George had wanted to refuse this game, but then Lee had proposed that if a person didn’t want to do the kiss, they needed to take a vodka shot. With that, you had batted your pretty eyelashes, and he had agreed.

“She had you wrapped around her fingers, doesn’t she?” Fred had mumbled.

He didn’t say anything, but it was pretty clear what the answer was.

You were the only one who, without saying anything, could make him do things he didn’t want to do. And not because she was forcing him, but because he wanted to make you happy.

He wanted to make you happy.

That was it. That was why he had been accepting everything that was happening right now.

When you were happy, he felt something inexplicable that bloomed in his heart and travelled through his veins to every part of his body, warming him with a feeling he felt no need to decipher.

If you were happy, he was too. Radiantly so.

“Okay, Gi,” you whispered, leaning closer to him, pretending you were resting your forehead on his shoulder. “After that boy, when he spins the bottle, you need to make it land on Nessa, and when Nessa refuses and spins it again, you need to make it land on Daphne.” 

“And what if they refuse to kiss?” he wondered.

“Nessa won’t drink two shots back-to-back, and you can see Daphne is already too drunk.”

Well, yes. Daphne had been dragged into the game by Astoria, and Astoria had been dragged by you.

Despite them being there, people were still wary of the Greengrass sisters. Normal, considering they were Slytherin and Daphne had been seen with Draco’s group multiple times. Though Astoria claimed they weren’t friends with them, it was weird.

You had vouched for them very vehemently, and so he had no reason to believe you were wrong about their characters. But his friends had no reason to believe they were nice outside of George believing you.

“What if it still doesn’t work?” he mumbled, but he started pulling his wand out of his pocket.

“We use Imperio.”

George turned to look at you, and you smiled sheepishly at him.

Sensing his change of demeanour, you quickly grasped his chin and shook his head slightly. “I’m joking.”

“You better be.”

When the lad finished kissing the girl, George flickered a spell when the boy spun the bottle again. It went on for a few seconds before it slowly landed on Nessa, who, as fast as she could, grabbed the vodka, a shot glass and drank it.

Your hand rested on his thigh as you watched attentively.

It was Nessa’s turn, and just as you had asked, he messed a bit with it and made it land on Daphne.

He could almost hear you vibrate with energy as Daphne lifted her head and looked at the brunette girl and then, slowly, to the bottle of vodka. She was about to reach for the cup when a hand stopped her.

Your nails dug into his thigh as Astoria convinced Daphne not to drink, claiming she had already drunk plenty.

“Please, let her do it.” You whispered to yourself, yet he heard it.

Daphne had conceded. And you almost squealed in delight. It made George chuckle at the absurdity of being so invested in other people’s love lives. He would never be able to understand that part of you, but he could always appreciate the fact that it obtained such reactions from you.

He looked at you.

Really looked at you.

The sun had come down to earth and personally turned you into sunshine by how bright your smile was.

It made the wrinkles on your eyes even more pronounced; your eyes disappeared, closed into half-moons that made your pupils spark very noticeably. Without lying, you were the most gorgeous girl he had ever seen in his life.

It made him wonder why you had developed a crush on him in the past. It’s not like he was that good-looking.

Not compared to you.

All of a sudden, he felt his heart skip a beat when your eyes found his. His hands felt sweaty, and his mouth went dry.

And that something new, something that he had never felt so strongly, flourished inside.

Scorching heat.

But this time you weren’t kissing his neck. You weren’t pulling his hair. 

Something he hadn’t dared to name before, yet now it was clear as day.

Desire.

“They kissed," you said low.

He cleared his throat. “Good.”

***

It didn’t take a lot for everybody to get drunk. Plenty of people wanted to play, but only to kiss the one they were attracted to, so many decided to take a shot instead of the other option. To be honest, besides Nessa and Daphne kissing, he believed the game was pretty boring. So did you, by the look on your face.

Daphne had quit long ago and was watching from the sidelines, and Nessa had gone on and kissed another person before she quit, too.

Of course, the bottle had landed a few times on George, but just as they had agreed early on, he refused to even breathe the same air as another girl or boy. Be it a game or not, he was no cheater. And the times it had landed on you, your glare had made the other person take the shot instead of you. So, in comparison to him, you were more sober.

Right now, the bottle was pointing at you, and the one who had spun it was Astoria. Without much thinking, you bent forward and placed a chaste kiss on her cheek before spinning it.

Slowly, it stopped, pointing at him.

“Boring!” He heard Fred mumble.

Easily, he grabbed you by the hips with one hand and with the other, he squeezed your cheeks together, making your lips purse. He placed a peck on you but didn’t let go of you fully; his hand travelled to the small of your back and stayed there.

Rather than moving to the centre of the circle and spinning, he took out his wand and flickered it in front of everybody, just as he had been doing the past rounds.

It spun again, and as if it were destiny, it pointed to you.

George blinked. Out of all the times people had been playing, not once had the bottle been pointed twice in a row at the same people.

“Oh! Tongue—” Fred started, but was quickly shut up by George’s glare.

“I know.”

He was fairly sure, almost completely, he could say, that it was Fred’s doing. He had that smirk on his lips, the one that was a permanent feature on his face, but what stood out the most was the playful gleam in his eyes.

It was the smirk of doing something wicked.

But the thing was, they had never kissed with tongue.

That kiss you had shared at the start of their journey, the one on the stairs of the secret passage, had been deep and heady, but with no tongues involved. Maybe he had graced his with your lips, but that had been all.

And he remembered you telling him that had been your pseudo first kiss.

So it was French kissing you when you had no experience in that, or drinking a shot.

Luckily, you were a quick learner, and he had big enough hands.

“I’m regretting ever saying yes to this game.” You mumbled, hands trembling as you grabbed his collar and brought him closer.

Your cheeks were painted a pretty crimson he hadn’t seen in a long while. And your breath brushing against his lips was shaky, not necessarily afraid but nervous, unable to contain the jittering.

That time, you had been like this, shyer even.

George placed his hands on your cheeks and pressed his lips with yours again, shifting his hands in a way that covered their locked lips. He moved his lips in that way you knew well, not rushing or making you more self-conscious than what you already were.

The roar of the room dimmed, not because everybody had suddenly shut up to see them kissing, but because George’s attention shifted entirely to you and your lips and the way your breath got agitated, hands tightening on his collar.

With tentative slowness, his tongue brushed your lower lip, a small request for access that you conceded by opening your mouth.

Timidly, your wet tip found his.

If George had been half the man he was, he would’ve sent every precaution out of the window and devoured you the way he wanted to. You tasted like firewhisky mixed with liquorice chocolates. Not the cherry of your lip balms, but the utter devastation of you without any external flavour.

Someone patted him on the back, and he snapped back.

“That was pretty hot!”

It was a girl who had said that in a high voice and completely wasted.

When his eyes opened, he found a vision that would haunt him in his most sinful dreams. Lips stained pink, slightly swollen, and shining with the mix of them.

Behind your eyes, there was a fire that he recognised almost immediately.

It mirrored his.

“Spin the bottle, love,” George mumbled, watching as you caught your breath.

Not offering any other comment, you moved and spun it before returning to your place, eyes never leaving his.

If you kept that, then there was going to be a bigger problem than kissing with tongue in public for the first time.

A gasp took them out of their staring contest, and when George looked to the centre, the spout was pointing once more at him.

He turned to Fred, but he raised his hands, then signalled behind George. There, sitting at a lover's seat with a big, brilliant smirk, was Ginny.

She raised the butterbeer in her hands and winked in his direction.

Well, he had been wrong.

***

Rules said one time was a peck, two times was a deeper kiss, and a rare third time was for seven minutes in heaven. Or at least that was what Lee had said before grabbing them and shoving them to the small service room that nobody but the house elves used.

You were so close.

So close, in fact, he could feel the slight tremor of your body trapped in the small yet cold closet. To look fashionable, you had sacrificed your comfort over looks, and so the clothes you wore did nothing to shield you from the gust of wind coming in through the open window above you.

He was about to be a gentleman and take off his jacket to give it to you, but you had other plans.

“It’s cold,” you mumbled before wrapping your freezing arms around his waist, hiding your face on his chest.

It took him a moment to realise what was happening, arms frozen in the air as you shivered against him. His jacket was open, so you were touching his back, rubbing it to steal his heat.

Shivers ran down his spine, though for a different reason than the chilly weather.

“I noticed,” he said, arms wrapping around you, shielding you. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologising for?”

He felt, more than saw, your lips moving against his chest.

Thinking of rainbows, and Snape’s homework, and McGonagall teaching them to dance wasn’t enough to get his mind out of how good your lips had felt when they tentatively opened to let his tongue—

“Well, you said you didn’t want your first kisses to be in public.”

You lifted your head from his chest. “It’s okay.” You shrugged. “It would’ve been weird if we made up an excuse not to do it. It’s what normal couples do, right?”

“It shouldn’t have been in front of everybody.” His hand travelled to cup your cheek. “And it was Ginny who manipulated it, so I should apologise.”

You sighed, and the heat of it hitting against the thin material of his long sleeve made him tense.

“Don’t. Because you’re making me think you’re regretting it.”

You blinked at him, the way that made his breath catch in his throat and his stomach flutter. Probably you didn’t even realise you did something like that. Or you did and used it to your advantage every time.

“Do you?” 

He cocked his head. “What do you want me to answer?”

“Whatever you want, George.” You bit your lips.

Neither knew who started it, but both knew neither wanted to finish it.

You moved up, going on your tippy toes, helping yourself by grasping his shirt to maintain equilibrium. He moved down, bringing your face forward by the cheeks.

Their lips crashed together hungrily.

More so than before.

Without any witnesses, George was unable to contain himself any longer. His hand tightened around you, not to hurt, but to keep firmly in place, preventing you from moving away. Though he didn’t need to do that, you were gripping him with a force he had never felt you use. You had shifted your hands, one on his hair and the other on his shoulder.

It was a long overdue encounter and, at the same time, one that should’ve never happened.

How could George go on with his life after finding out this is what kissing someone felt like?

Warm, asphyxiating, overpowering.

In a way, this was a first for him, too. First time feeling like his life depended on whether you wanted to continue or not.

The temperature inside the tiny room rose, and heady breaths could be heard mixed with the wet, clicking sound of lips coming together. Tongues fought, one more audacious, while the other, curious yet eager, tried to follow the rhythm imposed, learning quickly.

George didn’t realise when you had backed him against one of the shelves, but when he did, he turned you both around, pressing you hard. It only drew a quiet moan from you, and he couldn’t help but bite your lip to silence the whimper that rose and threatened to escape from his mouth.

Before he could even think of hoisting you up and pressing his hardening length against you, a knock interrupted them.

“Are you presentable?” Lee’s voice came from outside.

And just like that, the spell broke.

***

The walk of shame had been awkward; everybody had looked at you and George with knowing eyes as you stepped out of the closet. It didn’t help at all that your hair was messed up and your lipstick was all over the place.

You quickly excused yourself to go clean up, not daring to look George in the eyes.

That snog had been everything your thirteen-year-old self had dreamed of and more. So much more than that. It left you feeling all warm and giddy, as if you were again that 3rd  year girl with a crush.

Embarrassment and self-assuredness battled inside you. The first one because everybody knew, and the latter because you had felt just how much he had been into you.

Good, nice. You had kissed your crush, and he felt the same.

Wait.

Crush? Not ex-crush?

You had no time to dwell on that, though, because as soon as you neared the bathroom, you heard voices. Feminine voices.

Nessa, Daphne.

Quickly, you flattened yourself against the wall and glued your ear to it. It was muffled, but you were able to catch Nessa apologising to Daphne.

What was it today with the apologies? You rolled your eyes.

“No need,” Daphne said.

From your pocket, you took a tissue and started cleaning your mouth.

“It was a stupid game, Ness.”

Oh, nicknames. It meant that they weren’t just acquaintances anymore. It only made you smirk.

“Yes, but I know you don’t like girls, so I apologise; I should’ve just kissed your cheek or something.”

“Who said I don’t?”

Your eyes widened, and your hands stilled on the fixing of your hair. Confession? Giving Nessa her trust? What was this?

“And for the kiss, you don’t need to apologise at all. Actually…”

Daphne said something in a very low tone, something you weren’t able to hear, yet what you did hear was the soft thud of bodies coming together.

Just like you and George before.

You did a small celebratory dance. Everything was going according to plan.

Rushing towards the Common Room, you started searching for George again. He needed to know the sudden development of the DaNessa situation.

People were scattered, games finished, wasted and dancing to whatever music someone was playing; you found Fred talking with Angelina in a corner.

“Do you know where George is?” You asked.

“Let me check.” His hand disappeared in the left pocket of his jacket, then in the right. “No, I don’t have him with me.”

“We haven’t seen him,” Angelina replied kindly.

“I went away for three minutes, and suddenly he’s lost?” You placed your hands on your hips.

Fred, with a tense smirk, grabbed you by the shoulders and spun you around. “He must be somewhere; let’s see.” He took a few steps forward, moving you, before whispering in your ear. “You’re interrupting.”

“I don’t care! The matchmaking worked; I need to tell you, brother!” You swatted his hands away and looked at him.

“He said he was going to get water! Look for—” Fred’s eyes wandered behind you, and his voice cut off abruptly.

You turned around and saw George.

Hands on a girl’s waist.

George tossed the ball he had been bouncing repeatedly in the air and sighed. His arm crossed over his eyes, obscuring his vision.

The headache was killing him.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Fred said, opening the curtain of his four-poster bed.

“I’m tired,” George mumbled.

“Of what?”

He rolled his eyes. “Of your face.”

“We have the same face, arsehole.”

George dodged the pillow Fred had thrown in his direction before finally dragging his body off the bed and starting to put on his socks. His back cracked, and Fred lifted a brow when he groaned.

“Are you okay?” asked Fred.

After all the times he had crouched down to spy on Daphne, and then on Daphne, Nessa, and Astoria, his back had ended up thrown out, begging for a break. He still wasn’t able to understand how you were so full of energy.

This morning alone, you had carried him on your back—a few metres, he wouldn’t allow more—after he had complained through the whole spying session, and afterwards you had run to play a friendly football game the Huffs had proposed to pass the Sunday.

It had been entertaining to watch you get on Heidi’s face, provoking her until she had almost snapped, and you two had to be separated by other people. He almost felt like a cheerleader for a moment when you had scored a goal, and he had yelled so loud his throat hurt. His chest had been warm with something inexplicable.

Thinking of it, perhaps he should start training his stamina, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to keep following you around.

“Yes, just… tired,” George said, looking for his shoes.

“She’s been keeping you entertained, I guess?” When George only hummed in agreement, Fred spoke again. “Are you bringing her to the party?”

George looked confused for a few seconds before he understood. “Yes.”

In a few days, their birthday would come, and ever since a few years ago, they had proclaimed that day as the perfect opportunity for a party. It didn't matter if the first of April fell on a Monday; they partied anyway.

The tradition started when they were in their third year, and they had been able to smuggle some Muggle beer through Charlie and handed it to their classmates as a celebration, ending with thirteen-year-olds getting drunk for the first time and the weird praise of their mates.

Afterwards, their classmates just assumed they would repeat the action, and who were they to deny their wishes? So, the next year, instead of beer, they had been able to smuggle Firewhisky and, under the vigilance of the older students, had turned the common room into a party den.

“Sheesh, you never brought anybody; your fans will be pretty disappointed.” Fred propped himself up in his bed.

“I don’t have fans.” George put on his left shoe first, then his right, then tied them in the same order.

“Anyway,” he shrugged. “Do you know what she’s going to gift us?”

Once the words came out of his mouth, George looked up at his brother, his face unreadable as something inside him blared loud alarms that sent perilous feelings through his body.

His eye twitched.

“Why should she give you anything?” He squinted at his brother. “I’m her boyfriend, not you.”

“Jealous much?” Fred smirked. “I mean, I have your face, so maybe she’ll end up giving me your gift.”

“She’s far too intelligent to fall for such idiotic things.” George grabbed the ball he had discarded and threw it at Fred. “Don’t get any ideas, you git.”

“Oh, I don’t have ideas. I didn’t even say anything; your mind derailed towards that.” Fred mockingly said, yet his voice held a raunchy tone.

“I didn’t even cross that line!”  Without thinking, the younger twin grabbed a book and threw it to Fred. “Prick!"

Fred’s laugh stalled for a moment before he looked at his brother with a bewildered face. His face wasn’t all that serious, but it was devoid of all traces of playful salaciousness.

He opened his mouth and closed it again like a fish before a wicked grin spread across his face, like the Cheshire cat.

“You haven’t slept with her?” he asked with an incredulous tilt in his voice.

George felt the redness spreading from his neck up to his face. The heat of embarrassment made his palms sweat and his fingers tremble.

“None of your business,” he replied, but he didn’t look into his twin’s eyes.

“Why?” Fred enquired. “It’s not like you’re waiting for marriage or something.” His head tilted. “Do you not feel attracted to her?”

“That’s not what I said.” He said much too quickly, then he looked away, unable to leave and go look for you in that moment, just like you both had agreed upon.

“It’s been, what, two months?”

George nearly corrected him. Their two-month anniversary would fall on their birthday. But he kept his mouth shut. For someone who didn’t remember many dates, he sure kept up with everything about you, and if he said it, Fred would notice, too.

“Have you even, you know, touched her?” Fred mumbled, brows lifted. George shook his head. “Not even over the clothes?”

“No, Fred. We haven’t done anything of that nature.” Rolling his eyes, George started rummaging through his trunk to pick up a jacket. In reality, he was hiding his blooming red face.

“Do you even think of her that way?”

A great question George had absolutely no desire to think about. If his thoughts strayed that way, then he would for sure start realising things he didn’t want to realise.

In his mind, a flash of memory sparked something within him. In today's match, you were covered in sweat, yelling at Heidi while your hair stuck to your forehead and your clothes were rucked up.

The fire in your eyes had been mesmerising—he had looked away, flushed.

He shook his head, but to save face, he shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, really. Sex isn’t something I cannot live without.”

That was true. He wasn’t an oversexual teenager who needed to sleep with someone, or he would lose his mind. The arrangement he had with you was more than fulfilling: a few kisses here and there, gentle touches, whispers, jokes.

Even if now you were in a state of constant chaos when it came to Nessa, he was part of that mess. And he was happy with that; it was more than he had originally thought he could achieve with the bet.

A bet he hadn’t thought about in days. Weird.

“You’re telling me you will spend the next four to five months with a girlfriend you can’t even shag?”

The bad word that had come out of Fred’s mouth made his brows furrow, and he could nearly hear your voice telling him to mind his words.

“It’s not bad,” George replied. “Spending time with her is enough.”

In some part of his mind, that should’ve ignited some self-reflecting, but for someone who viewed sex as bland as he did, enjoying his time with you was more fulfilling than anything he had ever experienced with a partner.

“Right, just spending time together.” Fred hummed before he plopped his head on the pillow. “Maybe you could ask her to let you cop a feel as a gift.”

Outraged, George whipped his twin with his jacket. “Prat.”

But the image had been planted in his mind.

***

The air smelt faintly of cherry blossom shampoo and the strawberry hand cream you sometimes used when you ran out of the flowery-scented one. It gave the room a cosier feeling, making it softer and warmer than it already was.

You lay on your side, your body curled around itself on the cushioned spiral of the twins’ secret room. Quiet, deep in thought. Unbothered by his stare, you continued to twirl a strand of your hair between your fingers. Sometimes whispering things he couldn’t begin to guess.

“Invite Daphne and Astoria to your birthday party,” you finally mumbled after a few minutes of silence.

Taken out of his trance, George’s face looked filled with confusion, his brows pulled together in a way that made you extend your hands to smooth the wrinkles there. He leaned forward, his face seeking the delicate warmth.

It took him a few seconds to process what you told him, and you didn’t pressure him to understand quicker. He had been so caught up by the way you were chewing your lower lip that he forgot they were supposed to brainstorm more ideas to get Nessa and Daphne in a romantic context.

“No,” he whispered. “They are Slytherins.”

“Come on, Gi, they will be with Heidi, Nessa and Gabriel," you pouted.

“Gi?” He arched a brow and smirked at you.

You copied his smile, hands shooting up to squish his cheeks. “Yes, Gi.” Voice high and almost shrill.

“Are you a baby?”

“I’m a babe.” You winked, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “But don’t change the subject.” Your tone dropped.

“I’m not; I was caught off guard.” He closed his eyes, cold hands diving under the covers and reaching towards the sliver of skin between your shirt and trousers.

You let out a small yelp at the cold sensation and slapped his shoulder. “Brat!”

But you didn’t shove his hand away, and he didn’t take them off you. Even more, you scooted closer, arranged the blankets and folded your arms against his chest. A short, almost imperceptible sigh escaped your lips. Were it not for you two being so close together, George wouldn’t have been able to hear or feel it brushing against his neck.

You shivered, and then his arm was surrounding your waist, trembling hands resting against your lower back.

“Come on,” you begged. “Pretty please?”

“You do realise everybody is going to virtually assassinate them if they even try to set foot into the Gryffindor Common Room, right?” He tried to reason with you.

“They won’t,” you said fast, your fingers playing with the hem of his collar. “Not if they go when everybody is already drunk.”

He swallowed hard as he felt the barely perceptible traces of your fingers grazing his neck, his highly sensitive neck that was already starting to paint crimson.

George pinched your skin. “You’re sending them to die. Do they even want to go to the party?”

Without much shame, you propped yourself on top of him. “Prolly not, but I’m very convincing.”

“How?”

Sparkling eyes lit up with the fire of a challenge were cast upon him, and as your smile grew bigger and bigger, so did the tingly feeling on his chest that slowly expanded down his body.

Your eyes were incredibly telling, as well as wholly bewitching. They trapped him inside, like the tides of an ocean. The fire in them that he had been admiring more and more with each passing day was making him weak in the knees.

If it weren’t because he was already lying down, he would’ve probably needed to sit down.

A blooming, sudden feeling started appearing lately.

His eyes darted down her face until they found your shining, luscious lips spread into a playful smile. Today, his nose caught a waft of pumpkin pie. 

How many flavours were in your possession? He’d have to ask you.

As if noticing his wandering gaze, you drew your face near and placed a kiss on the corner of his lips. His breath hitched, and his brain short-circuited for a millisecond before all the blood rushed to his face—and down south.

He cleared his throat, and your smile turned wayward.

“Why are you suddenly so nervous?” You asked with a teasing lilt.

“I’m not nervous,” he replied, but his eyes dodged yours.

Giggling, you nuzzled his cheek with your cold nose, making him grumble. “You so are.”

“Don’t change the subject,” he said low and quick.

You squinted your eyes at him suspiciously, yet you let it slide. “So, if I can convince them, will you invite them?”

Now that you were on top of him, he was able to use both his hands to touch you. One remained on your lower back, while the other travelled towards your nape. His finger coiled around the root of your hair, softly tugging at it.

His pupils expanded, and the word formed on his lips before he could think of them. “Convince me.” He blurted out.

That ignited an even bigger fire in you, and before he could regret what he asked, you started gently pressing your lips on his cheeks. It was something you often did when you wanted to annoy him or when someone was looking, but now it was slower, deliberate.

His heart started beating faster than it should have, and when your kisses took a downwards path, one that you usually didn’t in public, his grip on your hair loosened softly, fingers trembling, not really knowing what to do. Then, they tightened and unconsciously pulled you closer to him.

The neck was a sensitive territory, one that you had learnt about when you had tickled him a few days after their plan started. This was provocation at its finest.

Blinking repeatedly, George started counting the stars on the ceiling as you kept going, coating his skin in a thin layer of pumpkin-pie lip balm. Unrelenting, your hand went up and threaded through his hair.

He should stop and tell you right now that he agreed, yet when he tried to speak, words tangled on his tongue.

Gasping, his eyes closed without him realising. Tilting his head slightly to the side to allow you more access to his skin, he nudged your hand, revelling in the sensations that took over his body.

A shiver ran down his spine, and the hairs on his body stood up, as if a lightning bolt had been sent in his direction.

This felt different, nothing he had ever experienced in his short dating history. Nobody had earned such a reaction from him with only a few, seemingly innocuous, kisses and touches. Something stirred inside, and a low, breathy whimper threatened to escape from his mouth. A simmering blaze that asked for more.

It was so astray, so completely inappropriate for two people pretending to be in a relationship.

You made him burn, and he had absolutely no idea how to extinguish the fire.  

“Can they come, pretty please, darling?” You murmured, face resurfacing from his neck, smudged gloss on your lips.

Fred had asked earlier if he was attracted to you, and he hadn’t answered yes or no. But it wasn’t that George didn’t know you were a pretty little thing; objectively speaking, you were gorgeous.

Right now? Hell, how could he not realise just how mesmerising your face was to stare at?

It was as if a blindfold had been taken off his eyes, and what he saw left him speechless. In front of him lay someone he knew but had never seen in the way he was currently seeing.

Something between his legs ached, and he’d rather not think of it; otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to answer you without making a stuttering mess.

“Okay,” he mumbled. “But if they feel uncomfortable, then that’s not on me.”

You nodded frantically before pressing a kiss to his lips. For a second, neither of you moved.

Then, you spoke. “Oh, Nessa is so going to fall for Daphne now.”

George swallowed; the wicked gleam in your face made it hard to breathe. “How?”

“Magic,” you replied quickly. “And alcohol.”

***

He didn’t sleep so easily that night.

The dream that afflicted him had been full of complete and utter devastation at the hands of a lustful demon that had no right to show him the images it showed him.

Honestly, he was totally fine with just existing with you there, in your own bubble where no external influences made him think of the way your lips would curl into a pretty 'o' as he sank deeper within—

Much to his chagrin, he knew very well what you smelt like and how your lips felt on his skin. It had followed him even in slumber, haunting him with ragged breaths and a barely contained gasp that sounded a little too much like your name.

And no matter how many times he had tried to erase the lewd scenes, he still had to hop under cold water to truly resolve the… problem.

George shook his head as he tried to concentrate on what Fred and Lee were talking about, but last night’s dream had left him reeling with embarrassment and something more profound and vexing than that.

“I convinced them.”

The three boys jumped when you suddenly appeared behind George and disturbed their morning debriefing. Fred dramatically clutched his chest and let out a gasp.

"Merlin." His hand travelled to his forehead. “You almost killed me!”

“Don’t exaggerate, Weasley.” You placed your books on the Gryffindor table and sat down next to George.

“Hello, love." George extended his lips towards you.

You smiled and placed a small peck on his lips, earning gags from Fred and Lee. “Hi, Gi.”

Horrified, Fred imitated you with a really high-pitched tone and a much too exaggerated fluttering of his eyelashes. You snarled at that, tossing your hair over your back and nodded at Lee.

“You convinced them?” George asked.

“Yes,” you smirked, hands shooting up to tug at one strand that had fallen to his face. “I told you, I’m very convincing.”

George’s skin flushed, and the sensation of your sumptuous lips slowly marking his neck with the tactic manipulation of a seasoned soldier came to the front of his memories. It was branded there with red-hot iron.

Oceanic eyes flickered down your face, to that maddening smirk you always had, and he was overcome with the urge to grab your face and snog you senseless until your breath quickened and that pretty pink blush appeared on your cheeks.

The scent of bubble gum coming out of your glossy lips hit him, and he barely contained himself from going for another kiss.

Fred cleared his throat, and only then did he realise you two had been staring at one another. When he saw his twin’s face, he had the largest smile George had ever seen.

“Convinced who of what, exactly?” Fred asked.

"Nosey.” You snapped your eyes at him.

“She wants to invite Daphne and Astoria to the party,” George replied. “And we will make sure, as good hosts, that nobody harasses them.”

“Who are they?” Lee asked, confused.

“Slytherins,” you said.

Fred made a disgusted sound, his face souring at the mention of the greenhouse. “What? You invited Slytherins to our party?” He pointed at George. “And you accepted it?”

“She’s very convincing!” George defended himself, hands raised to either side of his face.

“They’re not that brat Draco Malfoy,” you said, rolling your eyes. “George and I are trying to get Daphne and my friend Nessa to date.”

Fred lifted a brow. “Why would I care about that?”

You snarled again. “Because, Frederick, we need to create the perfect opportunity for them to kiss!”

“We?” Lee repeated. “You’re mental.”

George watched as you launched into an explanation as to why Nessa needed to fall out of love with Roselanna and how Daphne and Astoria were good people.

He didn’t think your approach was the best, but he couldn’t deny that the way you were doing small things that appeared casual was bringing them closer every day. Yesterday he had seen Daphne and Astoria together with Nessa as you and Hedi were playing the match.

Honestly, the way Daphne was looking at Nessa made him doubt whether it was merely caution or something akin to curiosity mixed with something else. The thing was, if Nessa ever learnt of all the ways you and George had manipulated their encounters, then he didn’t think the outcome would be good. And Fred was known to be kind of a babblermouth when drunk.

“So, will you help or not?” you asked.

Fred looked at his twin for an instant before his eyes turned to yours. “What will I get as compensation?”

“Me not shoving my foot up your…” You refrained from saying the word, and it was the first time George had seen you so close to swearing. “Bum.”

The smile on George’s face brightened a little, so you were capable of getting riled up to the point of swearing. He wondered what he would need to do to get you to swear.

“Will I have a birthday gift, at least?”

You blinked, turned to George, then turned to Fred again. “I can bake you a pie.”

For weeks, you had been telling him you were going to try to make something nice for him, so he knew you remembered it was his birthday. George guessed that you had forgotten he was a twin and shared a birthday with Fred, because your face was one of absolute bewilderment.

“What flavour?”

“Pumpkin.”

Like the taste of your lips yesterday.

"Okay," Fred accepted.

You clapped your hands together and smiled at George. “Great, we’re almost there.”

George was crouching down behind a bush; beside him, you were crouching too. Your sharp eyes were analysing the scene in front of you.

“I can’t hear anything,” you said after shushing him.

A day after you decided to play matchmaker and roped him into it, you had decided to first oversee the possible candidates before choosing a victi—a potential date for Nessa.

Unfortunately, George had been dragged to this stalking session with you.

He could have been planning pranks or brewing new taste products. He could have been lying on your lap while you played with his hair like he usually did before dinner. There were plenty of things he could have been doing, but he was stuck there.

Daphne Greengrass was not funny to watch.

She looked like she smelt shit all the time, her posture rigid as her younger sister braided flowers in her blonde hair.

“Haven’t you gathered enough information?” he asked, legs finally giving up, and his knees sank into the grass.

“No.” You shook your head. “I need to know more. Who is really Daphne Greengrass?”

“We are stalking her,” George whispered.

“No, we are selecting a candidate for Nessa.”

He didn’t bother correcting you, even though what you two were doing was the full definition of stalking. Rather, he turned to look at you—a much more entertaining view than that Slytherin girl.

February was coming to an end, but the relentless coldness still clung to the days with a vice grip. In just a few days, March would start, and the first month of their pseudo-dating would be concluded.

Fred had asked him if he planned to do something for their monthiversary, as he had seen many couples celebrate it. George had stared at his twin with an incredulous face once he started naming over-the-top date ideas and gifts.

Was George planning something? Yes, but not something big.

Over the course of the weeks, he had started learning what you liked and what you didn’t say you disliked. He had observed the way you beamed about what you found funny and how you just blinked and blankly stared at what you believed was ridiculous, boring or incredibly inappropriate.

So, he knew you didn’t like incredible, boisterous and unapologetically loud celebrations when they involved you as the main focus of attention.

The fireworks Fred suggested would just make you mad, and the singing dwarf would only embarrass you to the point of breaking up with him. And that is a fact you had confirmed with him when you two had witnessed a public confession with a dog, a dwarf and many balloons.

But it was fine. He didn’t have a lot of money to gift you the best jewellery or buy you an expensive bouquet, but he was putting a lot of effort into it.

After all, even if you were his fake girlfriend, you still were his first girlfriend.

You pressed your lips together, then spoke in a hushed tone. “In order to get to Daphne, we need to get Astoria.”

“Why?” George asked as he popped a lollipop you had given to him earlier into his mouth.

Slowly, you turned to look at him, your gaze flickering down to his mouth and a spark of something he didn’t dare name crossed over your eyes. They twinkled like little stars, slightly annoyed by his lack of interest, glittering with a hidden storm.

“Can’t you see just how close they are?” You pointed at them. “If we can get Astoria to help, then it’s a sure win.”

“I think we can find someone better,” he said low, earning a smack on his shoulder.

“No. They are a good match. Hufflepuffs and Slytherins will always be a good match,” you huffed.

“Oh, so you would rather be with a Slytherin,” he said, fake anger coating his tone as his face contorted in mock indignation. “I see how it is.”

Suddenly, Daphne turned her gaze to look straight at them. 

George didn’t breathe, the air hitching in his throat as he closed his eyes and looked down, as if the ground could swallow him whole and expel him on his bed.

One or two seconds passed before he lifted his gaze again. Daphne was still looking towards the bush they were hiding behind, but her blue eyes were flickering between one point and another, as if she were trying to look for something, anything.

He let out a breath when she finally looked away, her sister calling for her attention. The bush was too thick for the girl to see them crouching. 

“That was close,” you said, an air of amusement in your tone. 

“Getting caught is funny for you, hm?” He rolled his eyes. 

“A bit.” You chuckled, your hand lifted towards your face, an eye closed as you pinched the air between your thumb and index.

“And you’re a prefect?” He poked your ribs. 

He started standing up, his legs happy to be relieved from their kneeling position, but you grabbed his sleeves and tugged him to the ground. He fell almost on top of you, and you tumbled over.

His hand had landed on each side of your body, his face on your hair.

A whiff of wild berry shampoo invaded his senses, making his heart falter. His breath caught, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

You were frozen too; for once, he was glad he couldn’t see your face right now, or he would have died of embarrassment at how loud he had sniffed your hair. It was just that the smell was so nice and delicious that he couldn’t help himself.

“Let’s go grab something to eat,” you said promptly.

He composed himself and quickly put some distance between you two. “Uh, yeah.”

You took the hand he offered and stood up. “We still need to plan how to ambush Astoria.”

He rolled his eyes.

***

The water falling into the bath and filling it quickly was the only sound one could hear around the prefects’ bathroom. The scent of roses whirled through the room as you dumped the whole contents of the aromatic bottle onto the water.

George watched you rummaging, pacing back and forth with his feet dipped in the bath. He had a handful of Chocolate Cauldrons he had stolen from your bag in his hand and was eating them slowly, enjoying the creamy flavour of the caramel and liquor mixing.

It was the same taste he had felt on your mouth when you kissed him right before disappearing with Nessa, Gabriel and Heidi to go to class.

Between the day of your previous date and now, you both had gotten mildly used to greeting each other with a little kiss. It wasn’t something either of you did super conscious about it; it was just the natural progression of your fake relationship blooming into a full performance.

They were acting like a real couple should. As agreed upon. 

And even beyond that, George can say with much confidence that you have become one of his most trusted friends. There was a sort of aura in you that made him completely lower his guard.

You had managed to unearth things about him that only his twin knew and even things Fred didn't even know.

“We must make a plan," you said as you finally started taking off your Mary Janes and socks. “To push Nessa towards Daphne.”

“I’ve never matchmade anyone,” he said, plopping another cauldron on his mouth before offering you the rest.

“You thief." You rolled your eyes as you accepted your own sweets. “I’ve never played Cupid either! This is exciting.”

“You’ve never been a matchmaker?" he asked, raising a brow. “We’re fu—” You widened your eyes at him, a murderous look on them, so he corrected himself. “We’re doomed.” 

“No, if we put in effort, we can do anything!”

He tilted his head at your enthusiasm. “Okay, genius, how do we start?”

You dipped your feet in the water and sat elbow to elbow with him, so close you were almost touching each other.

“We know that Daphne loves Astoria,” you said, crossing your arms. “And we also know Astoria is not like those ugly Slytherins. So, the first thing we need to do is get close to her.”

“How?” he asked, resting back on his palms.

His blue eyes looked into yours, and he saw the common flickering of your pupils that indicated you were thinking of something, coming up with solutions.

“Heidi is part of the Hogwarts Orchestra,” you muttered, touching your chin. “She plays the transverse flute.”

George snorted. “Heidi plays the flute?” and when you lifted a brow, he quickly added. “Sorry, I find it unearthly.”

“Professor Flitwick roped Astoria to play the violin this year.” You smiled wickedly, then clapped your hands. “Heidi said that there are some open positions.”

“You play an instrument?” George asked as he popped one bubble that formed on the surface of the water with his foot.

Then your smile grew bigger. “Didn’t you say you used to play the piano?”

George looked at you, squinting his eyes as he examined the way your eyes shone with calculated, most bewitching mischief. “I did.”

“Perfect!” you said loudly. “You’ll join the orchestra, and I’ll be your most loyal admirer.”

He blinked. “I will not join the choir.”

“Yes, you will. And it is not a choir.”

You grabbed his hands and got them close, snuggling them against your chest. Your eyes were gleaming like rare jewels, and your lips were pursed. The sigh was devastating, rendering him completely speechless.

With sad puppy eyes, you spoke again. “Please?”

It was a breathy, low mumble, like honey dripping out of your moist lips.

“Okay.”

You smiled brightly again, throwing yourself at him and barely escaping the fate of falling into the water. “You’re the best!”

You gave him a big, sloppy smooch that left his lips hurting from the impact.

“You'd better be in all practices,” he grumbled, holding you still by the waist.

So, that was what Fred meant when he said he wouldn’t know the true extent of manipulation until he had a girlfriend.

He just never believed a fake girlfriend could have that power over him. 

***

Turns out, befriending Astoria had been as easy as holding a baby. Careful at first, but once you got away from the initial fear, it was smooth.

What hadn’t been easy had been playing the piano for Flitwick.

George was out of shape; his fingers had to relearn how to position themselves, how to be quick and precise, and how to recognise the keys and press the correct ones. Reading the music sheets hadn’t been so hard, but reading and playing at the same time had been something that took time to get the hang of.

He had learnt how to play the piano when he was very young, and one of their wizard neighbours had suggested their parents enrol him and Fred in a local Muggle after-school academy. Their mother had hesitated, but after they tried to make Ron an unknown participant in the Unbreakable Vow (Oops), she gave up and practically threw them into the academy.

Naturally, they had wanted to be together, but the academy had a strict rule of separating twins, something about developing their personalities away from each other. Fred went to sports, and George wandered through many departments.

He stumbled upon the music department by chance; he was supposed to be heading towards the electronics department when he got lost and ended up in a piano lesson where the teacher mistook him for a new student.

He continued going to the academy until he had to go to Hogwarts, and much time had passed since he last played the piano or any instrument. He was only relearning everything so you would get close to Astoria and Daphne. 

“Do your hands still hurt?” You asked, grabbing his hands and massaging them softly with your fingers.

“A bit,” he said.

“Use a heating pad before coming here,” Astoria said as she tucked away her violin.

You turned to look at her, the flower earrings that he had knitted himself to give to you during your monthiversary moving alongside your head. “Oh, we will do that.” You smiled kindly at her.

She blushed before quickly shutting the violin case. “It helped me when I was starting, too.”

“Thank you for the suggestion," you beamed at her.

George stared back at his hand, still in yours, and he blushed when he realised you weren’t massaging anymore but rather just rubbing his palms and fingers absentmindedly as you looked at Astoria.

Before the Slytherin girl could turn away, you called her name, stopping her in her tracks. Your gaze flickered towards him for a second, as if you were searching for courage inside him. And he nodded once.

He didn’t know what you were planning to do, but it had to do with the matchmaking plan.

“Would you hang out with us after practice?” you said timidly, lashes fluttering in that way that made everybody agree with you.

Astoria looked at you with a relaxed expression, but her eyes were trying to see if your question was genuine or something else. “I was going to study with my sister,” she said politely, a small, gentle smile on her face.

“Oh, Heidi and I were really looking forward to hanging out with you.”

You didn’t pout, like he knew you wanted to, but you looked a bit dejected. And the girl in front of them must have seen it too because a small frown appeared on her face, surprise mixed with a bit of hope.

George didn’t know her that much; he only saw her during practice, but he had been able to gather some information regarding her while talking with their other bandmates and seeing her during rehearsals.

She was quiet. Not quiet timid, but quiet in the calm and collected sense.

His first impression of her was that she looked like all the other snotty Slytherins, prone to sneering and always looking down their noses. But Astoria was soft-spoken, never raising her voice like many others did, never speaking when not addressed, and never stuttering mid-sentence.

She knew what to say when a bandmate suddenly felt like what they were doing was not good enough and never, ever brought blood into the conversation, even when in close contact with a Muggleborn.  

Astoria was nice, he conceded.

“Daphne and I can study later,” Astoria said slowly. She bit her lip before a soft smile relaxed her features. “What were you planning on doing?”

***

Daphne Greengrass was very protective of her sister.

You and George had picked it as soon as Astoria was out of practice and following the three of you towards the Hufflepuff common room. And Daphne wasn’t happy about strangers whisking her sister away from her watchful gaze.

As soon as the younger sister had sent the word to her older sister that she would be skipping the study session to hang out in the Hufflepuff House, she had fled towards the barrels’ door in front of the fruit basket painting.

So they had no other option but to let her in, much to your pleasure and to George’s exasperation.

You had kicked him on the shin when he had dared to roll his eyes at Daphne’s dramatic overprotection of his sister.

“I claim compensation; that hurt a lot,” he whined while rubbing the spot.

“Don’t be a meanie,” you uttered, staring at Daphne having a stiff conversation with Heidi and Nessa, sitting very close to her sister. “Remember the plan.”

“What plan?” Gabriel said, coming out from behind the love seat you two were sitting in.

Both of you jumped at that before you grabbed a cushion and bit him square in the face. “None of your business, Truman.”

“Why are the Greengrasses here?” he asked.

“Your best friend is very friendly,” George answered.

“Ah, yes. But I think there’s a fine line between being friendly and trying to have a million friends.” Gabriel patted your shoulder before sitting beside Heidi and hugging her shoulders with his arm.

“Get off of me, you filthy little creature.” Heidi pushed him away.

George turned to Nessa, who was quickly gathering her tarot cards the same way she did the first time he himself had met her. He nudged you, and you stopped trying to get Gabriel and Heidi from fighting for the third time this day.

“Do you want a quick tarot reading?” Nessa asked the two girls.

She earned a smile and a yes from Astoria.

You quickly slid from the armrest of the loveseat to his legs, surrounding his shoulders with one arm, before quickly whispering in his ear. “Bet she will interpret something that will change her perspective in one way or another.”

“A subconscious change of targets, you say?” he asked, then nodded. “Will she really stop her crushing on Rosie if the cards say she should?”

You rested your cheek against his crown and nodded. “Yup.”

He felt more than saw the big smile on your face; you quickly hid it by looking at him. Your eyes forming a brilliant, wicked idea.

“Do you know how to switch cards with others?” You whispered really low, so low he could barely make out the words you said.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Do you want me to switch the cards?”

Your head bobbed in agreement. “Do The High Priestess and The Lover.”

For a moment, George looked at Nessa, who was reading Astoria’s fate, and saw how the girl was looking at it with rapt attention. And how, despite the scowl on her face, Daphne seemed to be realising none of them had wanted to bully her baby sister.

He hesitated. “Are you sure?”

"Yes.” Your fingers played with a loose thread on his coat. “I’d rather play with fate than see Roselanna crushing Nessa under her foot.”

“And are you sure doing so won’t affect Nessa?”

After so many evenings spent with you and your friends, he had come to view them as their friends-in-law. He didn’t want to intentionally hurt her if Daphne turned out to be exactly like every other Slytherin.

“They had not once called you names,” you mumbled, a hand threading through his hair. “And everybody knows that Gabriel is Muggleborn. They don’t care.”

George sighed, resting his head against your chest. “Okay.”

They watched as Nessa wrapped up Astoria’s lecture, and then they both turned to look at Daphne, who reluctantly agreed.

“Make it quick,” she said sharply.

“Daphne doesn’t believe in tarot," her sister said apologetically.

The moment Nessa started to shuffle the cards, George flicked his wand, a barely perceptible movement that was covered by the armrest and your back. The Lovers fell onto the table. Then, as she kept shuffling, another one fell due to his magic, the High Priestess.

You placed a hand on his cheek and rubbed it with your thumb, leaving a kiss on his forehead. “Having you as a boyfriend is kind of useful,” you giggled.

George breathed in your scent as Nessa began speaking, her voice carrying a sort of eerily happy tone.

“Oh, you’re not going to like this,” she said, beaming at Daphne. “You already met the person you will fall in love with.”

There was a beat of silence before she grabbed The Lovers.

“But you don’t take them seriously.” She clapped her hands together. “And that’s going to be a problem for you.”

George snorted and quickly buried his face in your chest as the big smile threatened to break the mystic atmosphere that Nessa was trying hard to preserve. You patted him on the back, trying to snap him out of his amusement.

“What does that mean?” Daphne replied, arms crossing.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Nessa replied, a brow lifted.

But then she gathered the cards, and just as quickly as it started, it finished.

“It’s a passing ritual,” George said to Daphne for the first time since she arrived. “It’s their way of welcoming you into the group.”

You nodded, your hand playing with the end of your hair. “Yes, Nessa gave George a Tarot reading, too.”

“Have you figured out the meaning yet, George?” Nessa asked.

He tilted his head, then shook it. “To be honest, I forgot what you said to me during the reading.”

“Oh, I remember,” you said, looking at him, your eyes shining as you remembered it with a gleeful expression. “You were terrified.”

“I didn't; I was mature and collected,” he scoffed, hitting your thigh softly.

“Mature and collected? Please, you looked like you were about to be devoured by wolves.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

If it weren’t because Astoria suddenly interrupted them, they would still be in their own bubble. Playfully arguing was something they had started doing recently.

“Oh, you two are a lovely couple.” She smiled. “You fit so well together.”

And that had been enough to make them shyly look away.

Because she was right; you both fit well.

Confused, he had looked for you before classes started, but you quickly greeted him with a small kiss on the corner of his lips before scurrying away with Nessa.

Fred had asked him if he had scared you away or if the Puddifoot’s curse was true—the one that said couples that went there were bound to break up—but he was just as puzzled as his twin. The day had gone alright; you two had talked a lot, and you had had even more fun than some of the real couples.

It took various days until he finally had enough of you slipping away without even looking back for him to finally confront you.

“Do you not want to keep doing this anymore?” he had asked, voice low as he approached you after your arithmancy class.

“What?” You said, stopping in your tracks and lifting your head to look at him.

“You’re avoiding me,” replied George, grabbing your waist and guiding you towards one deserted hallway.

You said nothing, allowing him to take you wherever he wanted without opposing. What you did do was grab his hand and interlock them, as if to reassure him before you could talk. That was a nice signal. If you were clasping your hands together, then that meant you were still willing to play along with the farce.

Once you two had arrived in an empty hallway, you rested your back against the wall and opened your mouth to speak. But he shushed you, scanning the bricks on the wall next to you. When he finally found what he was looking for, he turned to look at you and smirked.

“Want to see something wicked?” he said slowly.

“What?” you asked, your eyes big with curiosity. “Another secret passage?”

“Better,” he said, widening his eyes at you.

He pressed down on one of the wall bricks and said a few words, then, as if Moses, the wall parted, and there was an opening to an obscure place. You got your face close to it, but the darkness made it impossible to see.

George looked over his shoulder before grabbing your hand and pulling you inside the open wall. It closed behind you two, and automatically, candles lit up the whole place.

You let out a gasp when you saw what was in front of you.

An unused, cosy room.

A big, abandoned classroom full of furniture and the smell of fireworks. It was filled with Fred’s and George’s things, and covered in potion books and Quidditch magazines. An old small kitchen and an icebox were placed in one corner of the room, opposite the blackboard full of potion recipes and calculations. The chimney was lit, and even a small library was self-dusting its books.

In the centre, a nest of spiral cushions sprawled across the floor, soft coils of fabric that invited you to sink into them as if the room itself were exhaling. They looked comfortable, colourful and super soft.

When he and his twin found the classroom, it already had some furniture that turned the forgotten classroom into a small house, and George had made sure to rearrange the place to cater to their necessities. Since neither he nor Fred usually slept there, they had brought the nest; sneaking a sofa was much more complicated than putting together some cushions.

Besides, whoever built up and decorated the place had made George and Fred’s experimentations easier, so there was no need for anything else. 

You threw yourself at the pillows, the softness absorbing your fall when your back hit it.

“Oh, it’s so comfortable,” you sighed.

From one of the shelves, he grabbed a blanket and tossed it at you before he lowered himself to lie beside you.

“You did this?”

“No, Fred and I found it,” he muttered, positioning himself sideways and resting his head on his hand. “We only brought a few things.”

You grabbed a blanket from beside the pillows and pulled it over your legs, covering his, too. “When did you two find this place?”

“By the end of the first year, we have been using it ever since.”

George grabbed one of your hands and started playing with your fingers, looking for the words to start speaking. But you cut him off by quickly going back to what he had asked before.

“I’m not avoiding you,” you mumbled, your thumb rubbing small circles on the gap between his thumb and index.

“No?” he raised a brow. “Fred thinks the Puddifoot’s curse is real.”

You rolled your eyes. “It cannot happen between us because we are not a real couple,” you said, as if it were the simplest thing, then smirked. “Really, I’m not avoiding you.”

He had feared that whatever had happened in the small library owned by your aunt had driven you away, that the interactions that day had made you realise you didn’t want to play pretend with him anymore.

“You’re overthinking a lot of things.” Your free hand travelled to his face to smooth the frown softly that he didn’t even realise was there. “We’re still boyfriend and girlfriend; you can tell Fred to stop believing he won the bet.”

“He’s been bragging already." He gave you a side smile.

“That baboon-faced Bashi-bazouk!” You squinted your eyes at the ceiling before looking back at George. “Don’t worry, as soon as we are out of here, we are settling that.” You smiled wickedly.

“Somehow, I’m scared," George playfully shuddered.

A comfortable silence settled over you two as George let what you said sink in. You hadn’t been avoiding him; good. Very good. Excellent, brilliant.

Then why weren’t you spending time with him?

“Then, what’s happening?” he asked.

He saw the way your brows furrowed slightly, your eyes flickering between him and the specs of dust floating in the air. He saw the way your pupils dilated and how they glazed over, lost in thought.

One, two seconds passed before you sighed and looked at him, your expression torn between a softness he had never seen and the fierce protectiveness he himself felt around his siblings.

“If I tell you, can you promise not to tell anybody?” You raised a brow, lifting yourself on your elbow to face him fully.

“I promise.”

“Pinky promise?” You lifted your pinky.

He blinked, then surrounded your finger with his palm. “What’s that?”

“Pinky promise!” you repeated, your mouth ajar in surprise. “It’s a promise that can’t ever be broken! It’s a pact!”

“Like an Unbreakable Vow?” he asked, confused.

“Yes!” you said, then clicked your tongue. “Not really. You don’t use magic. Just your own word.”

“Oh, so it’s Muggle.” He nodded.

“Yes. And you need to fulfil the promise.” You pointed at him. “Or you will end up a drunkard, a gambler like my dad.”

You grabbed his hand and lifted his pinky, closing all the other fingers, and then you intertwined yours with his.

“Swear you won’t tell.”

“I solemnly swear I won’t ever tell anyone,” he said, seriously.

You nodded, then planted a kiss on your thumb, and he copied you. 

He didn’t let go of your hand, and neither did you when you started speaking.

“Nessa just confessed she’s in love with Roselanna Láncome from 7th year,” you breathed. “And she wants to confess.”

Oh. Nessa liked girls. Okay. George nodded at your words, trying not to appear too surprised. Well, 'surprised' was not the word he would use to describe his reaction. More like confused.

“Láncome?” He furrowed his brows. “Roselanna from Ravenclaw? The one who’s very openly homophobic?”

You groaned, and your head slipped from your hand. “I know!”

“How could Nessa fall in love with someone like her?” He saw you shrug. “And more than that, Rosie will destroy her if she confesses.”

“I don’t know.” You shrugged. “But I guess Roselanna was somehow nice to her? And she used tarot and found that their destinies are interlocked or something like that!”

“Couldn’t that mean rivals?”

“Nessa is very volatile; you don’t know what’s happening in her brain most of the time. I’m trying to stop her from confessing.” You started playing with his fingers. “Nobody can know that Ness likes girls; she’s supposed to be engaged to some snobby boy from Slytherin.”

The fingertip of your index started softly caressing his palm, going over the callouses formed after many hours of practising swinging and hitting bludgers. It sent shivers down his spine, skin erupting in goosebumps when the edge of your nails scratched the lines.

“And Nessa’s parents are bigots, idiots who only care about power and money. They almost disinherit her when she was sorted into Hufflepuff.”

Nails dragged up the sleeve of his sweater, up to his wrist, where his pulse was starting to pick up. Your thumb settled there, not really pressing, just a presence made known.

His breath hitched, but you remained unaware of it.

“If she lands a good job after Hogwarts, she’s cutting off contact with them,” you mumbled, absentmindedly rubbing his skin. “But in the meantime, she has to deal with them, her fiancé, and also being pathetically in love with this horrible girl.”

George swallowed hard. He really tried to listen to you talking, but your touches were being so distracting. And your smell, the one that he had been trying to ignore since they had arrived, was etching itself on his brain.

Your shampoo smelt like wild berries, and it combined with the scent he picked from your lips when they made the pinky promise. It was sweetly distracting, a fragrance that kept changing every day, making him stop everything just to try and guess what the undertones were.

And you didn’t even realise that he always took a moment to analyse you that way. To take in the subtle differences, to stare at the way your lips shone with different shades of pink or red.

Today it was a peachier pink than yesterday’s cherry red.

“That’s why we will make her forget Rosie!” You said loudly, your free hand hitting him playfully on his arm.

“What?” he said, snapping his eyes from your lips back to your eyes.

“Matchmaking, George!” You smiled brightly. “We’ll find Nessa a girl to be lesbian with.”

***

The sunrays hitting George’s face were a welcome sensation, warming him against the cold winter breeze that made one shiver and look for a thick woolly coat. The gentle rustle of trees above him was lulling him towards a peaceful sleep as he rested his back against your chest.

Citrus mixed with the smell of flowers that surrounded them, enveloping him in a cloud of you so heavy he could not detangle from it. It was injecting itself into every pore of his being.

Worst of all was that he didn’t even know whether he liked your presence or feared what came with it.

“Fred’s looking.” He heard you mumble, your breath brushing against the shell of his ear.

“Didn’t you say you were going to correct him?” His voice came out groggy.

“I did.”

You nudged his cheek with your nose, arms surrounding his neck. His hands found your calves and started softly caressing you above your winter tights.

He hummed. “He’s still watching?”

Hiding your face on his neck, you nodded. “Your brother, Ron, is watching too.”

George finally opened his eyes and, without being too obvious, he started looking for his brothers, finding them several metres away, looking at both of you with rapt curiosity. They were talking to each other in short sentences, as if they were weighing what they were seeing and cataloguing it.

Of course, they were seeing first-hand that the bet was still on, that your distance had been something external to the relationship. And after days of George having to listen to them brag that he would have to start testing the products soon, it felt sooo blistering good to be on track once again.

He tilted his head to look at you, and from under, he saw the way your long, curled lashes fell to look at him. Your eyes shone with mischievous glee as your hands rubbed small circles on his chest.

“Tell me, my fair gentleman—are you in the mood for a little spectacle?” you teased.

He smirked, “I’m always up for a—”

But he was cut abruptly by your lips on his. It was short, a pressing of lips that sent the butterflies in his stomach flying, and sticky due to your cherry gloss that smeared all over his mouth. Like the first kiss you had stolen from him, it was surprising. Though this time, he had been somewhat prepared for it.

And when you separated, your lips travelled to kiss the bump on his nose, then his cheek. His face burnt red pretty fast when the string of kisses continued until your chapstick was all over him.

Squirming in your grasp, he let out a chuckle and moved his face away from your attacks. “Stop! I’m not a make-up remover.”

“No?” you said, placing a kiss right on his lobe.

His shoulder lifted, shielding his ear from your relentless attack. Shivers ran down his spine when you did so, yet you didn’t stop and continued trailing down the spot behind his ear to the mole on his neck. Despite his protests, he made no real effort to pull away from you, and the big smile on his face betrayed no real intent behind his curse words.

In fact, his long string of curses only made you bite him.

He yelped. “Fuck, no!” He tried covering his neck by lifting both his shoulders.  

“That tongue of yours is far too wicked, sir,” you giggled.

You settled your cheek against the crown of his head, his ruffled hair offering a fluffy bed for you to rest. And he could only bask in the way your hair cascaded against his face, covering the dazed look on his face, the delighted expression that he couldn’t shake away.

Being with you was easy, as if he were suddenly bathing under a tender sun that had little to no intention of hurting him. He liked the time he spent with you and loved how, somehow, he always ended with his cheeks aching after smiling so much.

Radiantly, in his eyes, you shone brighter with every day that passed.

He could see why everybody liked you. It wasn’t merely because you were mental and funny, but because you genuinely were able to change somebody’s mood from gloomy to cheerful in an instant. His mood always improved when he was with you. His serotonin made person. And it wasn’t because you made something in particular, or because you really tried. It was just you.

“I’m starting to think they are voyeurs,” you said after a while.

“Coming from Fred, I wouldn’t be surprised,” George mumbled, his eyes closing again, comfortable surrounded by your warmth.

His hands went back to trace small circles on your calves, small patterns and incoherent words, his potions homework, pet names. And he felt the way your body shuddered with every soft caress.

“He’s a creep.” Your fingers started to slowly rub the gloss stains on his face, trying to erase them.

“No can do." He shrugged, turning his face up to you so you would have better access to clean it.

Time slowed down when the soft tips of your fingers started to gently remove the marks of your kisses from his face. You were treating him too softly, too delicately. If you continued being like that, he would become used to it—spoilt.

But this farce had an expiration date, an ending set in stone. He couldn’t get accustomed to you hovering over him, touching him, lending him your warmth. After George won the bet, he would go back to his life without you.

That thought, for some reason, made his stomach churn. Hundreds of needles prickled at his skin at the thought of it, as if his body refused to forfeit what he had gained.

“What are you going to do with Nessa?” he suddenly asked, sitting up and getting away from your chest.

He saw the way your hand stood frozen mid-air and how your face betrayed a confusion you weren’t quick enough to mask before you smiled wickedly at him.

That, he understood. Wicked was uncomplicated, something someone mustn’t linger too much on. Wicked was fun, unhurried, and not subject to change.

“We've got to find a nice girl for her,” you purred. “So if you happen to know a girl who likes girls, it’s your time to suggest it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t really know the queer,” he shrugged, and his hand reached to pick a small leaf from your hair.

You didn’t dodge it like the first time he had tried to touch even a single strand of your hair. He smiled at that, wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes as he held your eyes with an expression that made you look away quickly.

“I was thinking Natalie McDonald,” you proposed, your hands picking at the edge of the blanket they had laid on the ground.

“Gryffindor fourth year?” He asked, lifting a brow. “Bit young, innit?”

You frowned, and your nose scrunched up. “Oh, please. 7th year boys date 4th year girls all the time, and no one bats an eye.”

“I don’t.”

“You only fake date." You squeezed his cheeks with one hand and scrunched your own lips as if you were a duck.

“I only fake-date you,” he managed.

“I have never seen you dating anybody.”

He shook away from your grasp. “I don’t date.”

“Why?” you asked, your body tilting towards him. “It’s not like you don’t have girls who would date you.”

It was something Fred had asked him countless times with different voice tones, more or less rude words. It was the reason he was even in your presence.

Never having had a girlfriend had been the problem that had started the whole madness of the bet. It was a shameful thing, something that needed to be corrected, erased so he could adhere to the standard school experience.

Dating, flirting, and being with someone had never been that appealing to him. Attraction was something flaunted around so carelessly that he had to force himself to feel it just like anybody else. Yet, for him, feeling drawn to people was a Herculean feat. It was hard to achieve, and even harder to act on it once he felt it.

“I guess I’ve never been that attracted to anyone,” he stammered.

You hummed, then nodded softly, accepting his vague answer without further questioning. He learnt, over the course of the weeks, that you knew how to read him pretty well. You just knew when something was a hard topic for him, and you would only nod and take whatever answer he gave.

No pressure, not you trying to get a more elaborate answer. Just… understanding.

“Well, there’s always Daphne Greengrass.”

His lips curled up. “For Nessa? A Slytherin?”

“A girl, George.” You nodded, suddenly agreeing with whatever you had thought. “Bicurious.”

“How do you know that?” he chuckled, surprised.

Hogsmeade was no exception. Or more like, the place where you had taken him was no exception.

Garlands of various shades of pink and red hearts hung from the ceiling for clients to look at. Red roses were placed in every corner of the space. Balloons floated above them like heart-shaped clouds.

The smell of freshly baked pastries and coffee filled the air, yet it was coated with a whiff of vanilla and hormones that seemed characteristic of the tea shop.

If George thought that the romantic ambience at Hogwarts was slightly sickening, then Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop was a puke-inducing, teenage whorehouse for the hormonal.

'It's not that bad,’ you had said before entering. But it had been worse, so much worse.

Upon entering, the first thing his eyes caught was a couple lip-locked in a tight embrace. The girl was practically on top of her boyfriend, and the guy’s hand was under her skirt; the coffees completely forgotten on their table.

Then he turned his gaze and surveyed the parlour, only to realise there were plenty of students there, enjoying the evening on dates. Not all were kissing, but most of them were, and that made George wonder if he was in some sort of hallucination where his worst nightmare had somehow turned real.

“Okay, no.” You chuckled, horrified, too. “It is bad.”

But when he was about to suggest turning around and going to Honeydukes, a chirpy employee swayed them towards a small booth. You both were automatically pressed to one another, shoulder to shoulder, and very impressed by the woman’s very stealthy tactic for trapping clients.

The woman handed you both the menu and quickly went her way towards a couple who seemed about to start the act in the middle of the shop. George watched in awe as the waitress was able to de-escalate the situation without making them stop.

“How?” George mumbled in your ear.

“Practice.” You laced your arms with his and got impossibly close to look at the menu together. “Makes me feel like we need to up the ante, right?” You joked.

“Right.” He finally took his gaze away from the disgusting scene. “Remind me again why we are here." His blue eyes looked at you accusingly.

Of course, George knew the fame that this tea shop had. And he had seen it from outside before and laughed once at Lee when he was dragged in by one of his girlfriends. He knew it was bad, but he had never thought it would be this bad.

Three days ago, you had convinced him of coming here by staring at him with big doe eyes that shone brighter than the most prominent star and pursed lips that smelt of cocoa powder and coffee.

It had been impossible to resist the soft flutter of your eyelashes. It was shameful to admit that he couldn’t stop the burning sensation on his cheeks when you had smiled and placed a small kiss on his nose when he said yes.

He was regretting that. And you were smirking, positively thriving in the situation.

“Because we need to go on dates.” You said as you scanned the menu. “And Puddifoot’s baked goods are so good.”

“You like this?” He turned around to you, surprised that you had never mentioned being here before.

A tiny ball of anxiety grew inside him, as little as a pearl, but there nonetheless, like something small starting to simmer beneath the surface. It came out of nowhere, making him shudder and breathe sharply.

“I mean, yeah.” You turned your eyes up at him. “I always order takeaway because I don’t like seeing people snogging right in front of my food.”

As if the knot were one of the balloons floating above, it deflated quickly, making him release a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. His mind quickly worked to justify the sudden tension in his body.

It was normal to feel anxious about your partner being with a person before; it was part of being in a relationship, fake or not. He had mentioned he disliked open relationships, so thinking of a third was bound to make him uncomfortable. 

Yes, that was it.

There was no reason why he shouldn’t feel uncomfortable. He had been doing some pretty romantic shit with you these weeks, so obviously, he had formed a beautiful friendship with you. He could feel uncomfortable at the thought of you doing this type of thing with others.

“Oh,” he mumbled, regaining his footing instantly. “I heard the food is spiked with aphrodisiacs.” He made a mock surprised face.

“Oh my god, I heard that rumour too,” you chuckled. “I mean, I don’t even know who would start such unfounded rumours." Indignantly, you furrowed your brows, a playful glint in your eyes.

“Me, I did it,” he smirked, his hand shooting to smooth the creases on your forehead. “Because this is a bawdy house in plain sight.”

You gasped exaggeratedly. “How dare you?” You took his hand and intertwined it with yours. “The aphrodisiacs have nothing to do with Madam Puddifoot’s personal activities.”

“My bad.” He squeezed your hand. “I never wanted to speak ill of such an honourable lady.”

There was a small sound that made you two turn your heads quickly towards it. And you fake gagged when you realised what was happening once you saw that a girl was squirming on top of her date.

You both looked at each other, faces contorted with incredulous awe, before erupting into giggles.

It felt like a punch in the face when he looked at you and found you were exploding with mirth and playfulness, full of life. Your eyes were nearly closed, wrinkled by the big smile on your face. Warmth spread through his body at an alarming speed.

Despite his initial horror, being with you always felt nice and comfortable, no matter the place. Which was more than some of the boys and girls at other tables could say, judging by the way some of them squirmed like scaredy-cats.

His heart skipped a beat, and the much too familiar sensation of his cheeks turning red appeared. He couldn’t believe he was having fun at a date in Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop.

Who also appeared was the cheerful waitress, asking if they were ready to order. You took it upon yourself to ask the woman for every ingredient of each special dessert of the day, asking if it had any peanut or ginger in it.

“Can I ask why?” She asked, not so chirpy anymore, after the third time you had asked.

“He’s allergic,” you said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

George looked at you, his brow raised. He had never told you of his allergies, much less that he hated ginger, which was an ingredient in the star drink on the menu.

“How do you know I don’t like ginger?” He asked after the waitress was gone with their order in hand.

“You avoid those it like the plague, I figured.” You shrugged.

Not many people knew he had any allergies at all, so it was a big thing, especially when he hadn’t been the one who told you he was allergic. You noticed—like you always did when he was spiralling, anxious, or embarrassed.

Had you been paying attention to him just like he inevitably did?

You just did things that left him speechless and then acted as if they were no big deal. Maybe it wasn’t, but the nagging in his brain told him that perhaps he should pay more attention to everything.

Surprisingly, you had been right about the pastries being delicious. They were creamy and soft and sugary enough not to be too sweet. The tea was of good quality, and the flavour was strong, just as he enjoyed it.

He observed the way you savoured the pastry. You ate first the spongy cake—sometimes drinking your coffee—and then the filling. It was a ritual he had seen you do plenty of times; you left your favourite part for the last.

He had given you a few bites of his cake, shoving his spoon in your mouth after you had claimed it was his and you shouldn’t eat too much of it.

“Try this,” you said and brought a spoonful of your dessert towards his lips. “How is it?”

“It is so good,” he practically groaned as the lemon-tasting cake touched his taste buds. “Oh my God, I should offer Madam Puddifoot my apologies.”

You winked at him and kept eating your cake.

“You shouldn’t judge a book by its—” You paused yourself before finishing the phrase, turning your head towards George in shock, your mouth opened, and your eyes filled with disgust.

He turned to look where you had been looking and, like you, turned his gaze away instantly. You blinked and covered your peripheral view with your palm.

“Tell me I didn’t just see what we just saw,” you mumbled.

There, in the middle of the shop, sitting in one of the love seats, was a student from Durmstrang cosying with a Ravenclaw girl. It wasn’t that which was shocking, but the incredibly visible problem the guy had, which he didn’t even bother to cover.

George believed half the men there had the same problem, but the thing was that none of those guys were sitting in one of the most visible places of the whole shop.

“You know, I think it’s enough.” You snorted nervously. “Let’s pay and go before someone starts getting freaky on the table.”

He wholeheartedly agreed.

***

He followed you towards a small, second-hand bookshop in one of the less commercial zones of Hogsmeade. He had almost never been there, not because he never stepped foot into a bookshop willingly—kind of true, though—but because he hardly ever went to this part of the town.

Apparently, you knew who the owner was, and even when the store seemed closed, she allowed you two to enter without even sparing George a glance before she disappeared behind a door and left you two alone.

“That’s my cousin,” you mumbled to him as he watched her run away.

"Does your family live in Hogsmeade?” He asked, back resting against a bookshelf.

“Yes,” you nodded. “Most of them do.”

You paced around the small library before you picked a worn book and opened it. You showed him what was inside: a very ugly drawing of a princess and a frog.

“This book has been here since I was ten." You looked at the cover. “Every time I come here, I wonder if someone has finally taken it home, but no, it’s still here.”

He walked behind you, looking at the book over your shoulder. “You drew that?”

“Yes.” You traced the smudgy lines of the drawing. “It was my favourite. It’s a Muggle book.”

You turned around, and you jumped softly, as if you hadn’t felt the way he had stalked near you until his chest was almost glued to your back. When you looked up, he saw you biting your lip before returning your gaze to the book.

“You talk a lot of muggle culture,” he mumbled, fearing that if he spoke too loudly, he would make your cousin come back.

“My dad was a Muggleborn." You tilted your head and smiled softly. “He used to read me a lot of Muggle books.” You spun to see him.

That had been the first time you had mentioned your dad without a jab at him, without that acidic humour that he had learnt to laugh and shrug off quickly. Perhaps you covered the hurt behind playful words, because he could see the nostalgia in the way your mouth lifted up almost unwillingly.

It was gut-wrenching in a way he never imagined. He was used to the occasional marks of sarcastic anger that emerged from time to time, but not to the sad wistfulness in your eyes.

He felt it viscerally in his heart. Not the occasional pull he felt when you laughed, or the tickle on his stomach when you kissed his cheek. It was neither the anxiousness from before nor the nervousness of overthinking.

This was much deeper. Something he couldn’t control.

“What is it about?” He asked, voice tender, his hands coming to tuck strands of hair behind your ears.

You pursed your lips, thinking, then spoke. “A spoilt princess gets helped by a frog to get a ball from a pond; she promised him her friendship but went back on her word. The frog follows her, and the princess's father makes her fulfil the promise. The frog wants to sleep on her bed; the princess smashes the frog against the wall, and he turns into a prince.” You chuckle.

He raised a brow at the way you laughed, the playful gleam he loved so much in your eyes. “I thought it would be a love story.” He squeezed your cheeks.

You scoffed. “The book is a collection of tales from the Grimm brothers. Have you heard of Cinderella?”

“The one that loses her shoe?”

“That.” You flipped the pages and pointed at one. “It’s much more interesting here.”

“Why?” Though, by the way you were smirking, he could almost guess it was something extremely wicked. It made him smile, too.

“The stepsisters cut their own feet to fit into Cinderella’s shoe. And when Cinderella marries the prince, her dove eats the stepsisters’ eyes.” You grimly told the story in an ominous voice that made him let out an amused snort.

“Violent.” He said while grabbing the book. “Something children would enjoy greatly.”

“I did,” you mumbled. “I was a very morbid child, though. My mum refuses to let me read the story to my brother.” You shrugged, but then the small smirk slowly vanished.

“Do you think your cousin will mind if we borrow this one?” He asked. “I would love to read it.”

“She won’t. She’s not the owner; my aunt is.” You grabbed the book and shoved it in your purse. “Besides, if she doesn’t want me to snitch that the shop was closed, she'd better not refuse.”

“Will you threaten her for me?” He asked, his tone comically high for him.

“Everything for you, love.”

You winked, and he feigned as if he had been shot straight through the heart by an arrow, his blood rushing loudly in his ears as his back hit the bookshelf lightly. His eyes were lowered for a few seconds, maintaining the role of a wounded man.

He stared at the floor, his mind repeating the word 'love' again and again.

“Oh no, let me call the healers!” You bubbled over with laughter in front of him, your hand coming down on his hair. “An ambulance!”

He lurched forward suddenly, grabbing your waist and lifting you in the air. You shrieked very loudly as you grasped his clothes. For a second, he feared your cousin would come running and enter the bookshop again, but there was nothing.

“Let me down!” You giggled, your hand travelling to his neck and started tickling him.

When your finger wiggled on his collarbone, he quickly set you down on the floor, though his hands remained on your waist, almost grounding himself in the moment instead of letting his mind ruminate more.

Your smile plastered on your face made him smile too, wildly, unrestrained. 

The dust floating around the old store caught in the setting sun, glowing like glitter behind your back. He believed he heard a shift of something, maybe a page of a sentient book changing.

He was, perhaps, too aware of the way you were near him, your hands now gripping the collar of his shirt as if it were a safety net.

“Have I ever told you how violent you can be?” he muffled, his eyes fluttering between yours.

“No,” you chortled. “But you tell me I’m mental all the time.”

“Seems about right,” he laughed.

He stared at you as you slowly retrieved your hands and clasped them behind your back. There was a small tension that he didn’t know if you could feel too, almost as if the comfort had turned slightly sharp.

In the solitude of the bookshop, George grabbed your cheeks and pressed a light kiss on your forehead. He lingered a bit, the scent of your shampoo invading his senses.

“Let’s head back.” He whispered.

He offered his hand. You nodded and took it.

“Okay.”

***

The Hufflepuff girls’ room was filled with only the soft snores of your Heidi and the occasional shuffling of some of your other roommates. There wasn’t even a candle lit, and the windows were nearly all the way closed, making the yellowish room appear almost black.

You lay on your bed, eyes open wide despite the heaviness in your limbs. The tick-tock of the clock made you well aware that it was already very late in the night, but you couldn’t stop replaying today’s Hogsmeade date.

It was supposed to be a debriefing date. They were supposed to talk about their feelings regarding the last two weeks now that they were away from their friends and all the annoying people who didn’t know they were crafting a fabricated story. Food was merely a given while discussing their plans.

But that hadn’t happened, and instead you two had done everything but discuss the bet. Hell, he had even taken a few pictures with your muggle camera, making you pose while they walked back towards the meeting point to go back to the castle.

He had been so close to you, his blue eyes ingrained in your memory like a tattoo. 

They had been active today, observing you in every move you made. At the time, you had disregarded it as him trying not to appear nervous in a place filled with lovey-dovey couples. You had believed he was watching how you acted to try to act the same.

But then you had taken him to the bookshop, and his eyes still followed you. Still searching, prodding inside yours. Then he had kissed your forehead.

It had felt intimate, extremely so. Even after kissing him on the lips a couple of weeks ago, he managed to make the forehead kiss even more devoted than that.

Affection was starting to grow inside your heart with a vice grip. It was squeezing your heart every so often when he looked at you more than he should have, when he hugged you and acted all tender and mellow.

You had thought that you had buried all your feelings for him long ago, forgotten in a vault full of awful memories of that third year.

That crush had been circumstantial. 

You had needed an outlet, something to hope for while your father slipped through your fingers and your mum started working more each day. It had been something you had cherished very dearly but was never to be revised again.

And you knew that involving yourself in the bet was a bad idea, but you simply couldn’t help yourself. It hit too close to home not to do something about it.

Yes, not wanting a girl to fall for whatever Fred and George tried to achieve with all of that had been part of it. The winnings, too, although you really didn’t need them. But you would’ve hated to see your parents’ story repeat.

In doing so, you trapped yourself.

“You’re awake.”

A voice coming from your side made you startle. You turned quickly and found Nessa crouching beside your bed.

“Nessa, what are you doing awake?” You whispered, confused as to why she was still wearing her day clothes so late in the night.

“Wanna hit the kitchens?” She asked, her tone slightly shifting to embarrassment.

“Did something happen?” You sat down, your full attention now on her.

She avoided your gaze for a bit, then spoke. “Let’s have some cake, please?”

Seeing Nessa so out of her whimsical persona baffled you so much that whatever thought you had was automatically erased. You grabbed her hand and nodded.